


Details

by Watergirl1968



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Past Domestic Violence, Past Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-05-17 13:18:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 46,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5871115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watergirl1968/pseuds/Watergirl1968
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Details' is a side-story to Cherry Kirsch, which is a modern Jearmin fic. In Cherry Kirsch, Jean is a jazz musician single dad, and Armin is a paramedic, who is also genderfluid. 'Details' is best enjoyed if you've read Cherry Kirsch. It features Jean's best friend, guitarist Chris Guthrie, and his partner Les Hastings, a grumpy, soft-hearted police detective. </p><p>'Details' uncovers how Chris and Les met, and explores the ways in which their love begins to heal some very deep wounds. </p><p>If you liked meeting these characters in Cherry Kirsch, I hope you will enjoy this small piece of their world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Birthday Blues

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote 'Details' in order to explore and share a little more about Chris Guthrie and Les Hastings. These two OC's provided key supporting roles to Jean and Armin over the 14 months that it took to write Cherry Kirsch. Here, Jean and Armin return the favour, helping to tell the story of how Lesley and Chris got together.
> 
> Future side-shots, and a continuation of the main narrative for Cherry Kirsch are coming up in 2K16 and will put the focus back on Jean and Armin, but I'm hoping CK fans will consider checking out this short fic.
> 
> There are some notes to be aware of: The fic refers to a situation of past domestic (non-sexual) abuse. It also describes the use of marijuana to combat anxiety and distress. Please proceed accordingly, and take care of yourself first and foremost. Having said that, the story is also one of survival, and healing.
> 
> Lastly, @lovelybonezproductions has created an incredible piece of art for this story. I'm posting it on tumblr and linking back here...love and thanks Bren!

The music begins in his spine, green-gold. It warms his heart and lungs, bursting like a kaleidoscope behind his eyes. It's colours morph…poignant, bright and changeable as the gasoline pools that streak the asphalt as he walks across the corner gas station in the rain.

"Dude, it's pissing out."

"I know, bro."

"So, let me drive you?" Jean had tilted his head, shrugging and not understanding.

"Thanks, but I'm good. It's all good…I'll walk."

Jean had flapped a hand at Chris, his best friend and bandmate. "Dude, _whatev_."

Jean didn't understand. Jean had to wrangle a double bass, music stands, a five-year-old daughter, knapsacks and goldfish crackers. To him, rain was a nuisance.

Chris had only to get himself from the rehearsal space back to the house in Riverdale. He walked, unhurried. Raindrops clung hopefully to the crazy mesh of brown curls, before warming and soaking in.

Chris Guthrie hummed, observing how each raindrop got a split-second of life as an angry little dagger as it hit the pavement.

He'd been singing with Lydia, Cherry Kirsch's jazz vocalist, that afternoon. Lydia Adandwale was an exceptional talent. She always came to rehearsal prepared, her sheet music marked-up and extracted from a brown leather folio. She'd brought her bandmates a package of maple biscuits and strong coffee.

Lydia sang with her entire body, holding up one manicured hand, poised to grab the ripe note from it's invisible tree.

Chris only knew that the harmonies he created with Lydia were as blissfully close to pitch-perfect as he'd ever experienced; pure and silver.

Singing with Jean was different. Jean was a poet, a lyricist. He was also a prankster, warm and accessible. He could not or would not, be a slave to pitch at the expense of raw emotion. Chris and Jean sang constantly; it was their mother tongue, their banter, their solace. Had they not both been so enamoured by modern jazz, in all it's richness, the two of them might have recorded all of the indie songs that Jean had written for his lover Armin, and then hidden.

Chris hadn't expected to love teaching music. More to the point, he hadn't expected the maelstrom inside of his head to still itself long enough for him to instruct another human being.

He taught piano, voice and guitar out of his basement studio in Lesley's - _no, in their_ \- house.

He had taught Armin Arlert to sing, inasmuch as one can teach a baby deer to walk. Armin had been hesitant. He'd badly wanted singing to be a science; orderly and rhythmic, like the breathing exercises Chris was teaching him. When it came time to actually sing the lyrics, Armin had recoiled at being so exposed, attempting to retract his soft voice like a burned paw.

Chris Guthrie understood a few things about vulnerability, about hurt.

One day, the simple song he'd been teaching Armin had taken flight, and Chris had found himself shaking, petrified that his Bambi would tumble to the ice; then elated when he hadn't. Armin's tone was a sweet, springtime yellow.

The April rain was soaking him thoroughly, oozing through his green army surplus jacket. His socks squished like sponges inside of his ankle boots, which jangled as he shuffled along.

Today was Chris Guthrie's birthday.

__________

"Jean?"

Nothing.

"Jean!"

"Baby, I'm here….I'm here."

Jean Kirschstein appeared in the doorway of the loft's bathroom.

"Good! Good, because we need to go soon. As soon as Mikki drops Sasha off…Are you ready?"

"No."

Armin huffed softly.

"You look cute," Jean slouched against the doorjamb.

Armin leaned over the vanity, his crisp, chambray shirt open, carefully lining his eyes in a smudgy grey colour. His hair was pulled back loosely, and he wore one Frye boot.

"Where's your other boot?"

"I don't know."

Jean stepped into the bathroom, standing behind Armin. He bent, softly kissing the nape of Armin's neck.

"I see. And where are your pants?" He ran his fingertips up the back of Armin's bare leg.

Armin squirmed. "I don't want us to be _late._ Chris is teaching Sash and me to make his jam biscuits." Armin said somberly.

Jean had visions of a flour blizzard. He felt his mouth quirking into a grin and schooled his expression.

"Relax," he kissed Armin behind one rounded ear, his hand easing between the bare legs. "Chris walked home and he won't be ready for at least an hour."

"You aren't getting ready," Armin stroked gloss over his small pout. Jean felt a pleasant thickening inside of his jeans.

"Yeah, I am," And there it was - the prankster's grin in the mirror.

"Don't mess me up," Armin breathed. "I'm all ironed and…."

"You smell like bubblegum…" Jean's teeth clamped gently against Armin's neck.

"I used Sasha's shampoo."

The wandering hand cupped one of Armin's buttocks, calloused musician's fingers snagging on the soft cotton.

"My shirt!"

Jean chuckled. "Okay, fussyboots…..boot."

He slid the blue shirt off of Armin, hanging it on a hook.

"What are these?" he whispered into Armin's ear, hazel eyes bright in the mirror.

Armin braced himself on the edge of the vanity, arching back against Jean a little.

"New," he said.

"Hmm," Jean slid a long arm around Armin's torso, his other hand tracing the edge of the soft cotton briefs. They were white, with blue seams and printed with quirky multicoloured fish.

"They're cute," Jean's lips were softening, warm against Armin's neck.

Armin turned his head, catching Jean in a slow kiss.

Jean palmed the front of the briefs, gently. "Fishies," he chuckled.

Armin sighed.

Jean broke the kiss, watching his own hand in the mirror as it teased his young lover. The cotton was brushed, soft and snuggly.

"There's a cat right here," Jean sucked in his breath, amused and hard as hell.

Printed on the crotch was a lime green cat, with a pink fish in it's belly.

"The kitty…" Jean teased Armin's erection through the fabric, "It's getting fatter….."

He slid his hand inside the waistband of the playful briefs, fingers contacting rigid flesh.

Armin whimpered, grinding backward against Jean, his eye pencil clattering into the sink.

__________

"Detective Hastings," a uniform poked her head into the detective squad, "You've got a visitor."

Lesley Hastings glanced up from his computer screen. "Who is it?"

"I…I don't know, sir. A woman. With one of those head scarves."

Lesley favoured the constable with a glare. "It's called a _hijab_ , Constable."

"Sir?"

"A _hijab._ And that woman is Detective Nasir's wife."

The uniformed officer disappeared with a sheepish nod and Lesley rose, stretching stiffly. He made his way downstairs to the busy main floor of 55 Division.

Moonie Nasir was wrangling her two busy sons and baby daughter.

"Morning Moonie," Lesley greeted her.

A sweet, mischievous smile. "Lesley, hello! We're on our way to swimming. But I think that today…"

Her eyes shifted sideways.

_Today is the day you see Tariq._

Lesley nodded. "I see him today."

Moonie jostled her daughter in her stroller. "I can't contact him right now. No phones, he told me. It's been six days. So…."

"I'll tell him you all were here," Lesley assured the young mother.

She sighed, smiling gratefully. "Tariq told me about your errand today."

"Mmmhmm."

"Tariq will give you good advice. He picked my ring out, after all. And…well, look now!" she giggled.

"Well, we're off now. Thank you for coming down…and…please tell Chris he is in my prayers."

It was Moonie's indirect way of acknowledging Chris' birthday.

"I will do so. Anything else you need?"

"No, Lesley. Just both of you stay safe."

__________

Tariq Nasir had come to 55 Division Homicide unit by way of Intelligence. He had been undercover for a number of months at _Sharq Tanq_ , an upscale bar which hosted drag shows and theatre. His cover was a key component of the case he and his partner, Les Hastings were working.

Tariq's cover persona, 'Toyeh' was a dark-eyed beauty, tall and composed. She managed the front of house at _Sharq Tanq_ , keeping a keep eye on the comings and goings.

The assignment often kept Tariq out of contact with his family for days, or even weeks.

On Chris Guthrie's birthday, at noon, Les Hastings pulled up across the street from _Sharq Tanq_ to meet his undercover partner.

'Toyeh' emerged from the club, pulling on a smart cream jacket, and checking her face in a small round compact. Lesley gave his head a shake. Tariq Nasir was a true chameleon.

'Toyeh' walked slowly toward Lesley's car, opened the passenger door and slid inside gracefully.

"Pud."

"Damn." Lesley looked at his partner. "I know you're in there somewhere."

Tariq grinned. "How's my family?"

"She came in today…she sends her love."

"The baby?"

"Looked fine to me." Lesley shrugged.

A laugh. "You wait, Pud. Your time will come."

Lesley snorted.

"Don't," Tariq nudged the tall detective.

"What?"

"Don't pretend today's not special. You're picking a ring for Chris today, man!"

Lesley growled something and pulled away from the curb.

Tariq snickered, opened his handbag and carefully touched up 'Toyeh's' lipstick.

__________

Arlo Weinberg's jewellery store was a block from _Sharq Tanq_ , located in a side street of smart boutique shops. Mr. Weinberg looked up, shortly after lunchtime, to see Toyeh enter his shop with a tall, handsome man. Neat beard. Rumpled suit. Mr. Weinberg's curiosity was piqued.

"Toyeh my dear, how are you?" Arlo emerged from behind the counter, kissing Toyeh's cheeks.

"I'm wonderful, thank you," Toyeh purred. "Arlo, please meet my friend Lesley."

Hastings inclined his head, shaking the jeweller's hand and looking pained.

"Arlo," Toyeh explained, "loans us some beautiful pieces for our shows."

"Are you looking for something special today?" the jeweller inquired.

"Well," Toyeh smiled, "Lesley is looking for an engagement ring!"

__________

The rolling pin was solid walnut, eighteen inches long, with wooden handles. It was heavy, weighing a good five pounds. Chris removed it from a drawer, placing it onto the counter, beside a pastry board. Beside the rolling pin, he placed a round copper biscuit cutter, and a thimble. He exhaled.

The young guitarist stood in his kitchen, hair tied up in a tie-dyed scarf, wearing a _Cherry Kirsch_ t-shirt and cotton pants. It was almost time to make jam biscuits.

Smiling to himself, he dragged a footstool up against the counter. His goddaughter Sasha would be able to stand on it, and help.

_'Jean,' Mikasa had asked Sasha's father, 'are you sure you want to ask Chris? I know how much you love him, but to ask him to step in and raise Sasha?'_  
_'Yes,'' Jean had replied, with utter certainty. 'Chris will never, ever let anyone hurt Sasha.'_

Chris stood in the quiet kitchen, watching the dust motes float lazily in a sunbeam. He hefted the rolling pin, put it down again. Closed his hand into a fist, opened it again. It was a man's hand now, tawny brown and broad-knuckled and strong. As the years unfolded like storybook pages, he was becoming strong.

The rolling pin was exactly like the one his mom had made jam biscuits with, every birthday. Chris made the biscuits now; flouring the rolling pin, rolling out the pastry, cutting the rings and baking them golden-crisp, before sandwiching raspberry jam between them.

Today, he would teach Armin and Sasha how to make them.

The original rolling pin, with it's dark stains, now lived in an evidence locker in the basement of Toronto Police 55 Division.

Humming softly, Chris began to assemble the ingredients.

__________

 Tariq had to admit that he was enjoying watching Hastings squirm.

Yes, Lesley had told the jeweller, I'm looking for a ring.

No, a _man's_ ring.

"Ah," the jeweller had caught on quickly, "for a partner. Very good. Let me show you a couple of pieces…"

Another man and a woman had entered the jeweller's. They perused the glass display cabinets, heads bent together. Tariq felt a pang. He wondered how Moonie was coping.

A second man entered the store; a thin, pale individual wearing a grey wool beanie and sunglasses.

"Pud," Tariq said quietly.

Lesley's head was bent over a selection of platinum bands. He glanced up. "What?"

The next instant, the thin man pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket.

He pointed the weapon at Mr. Weinberg, extracting a white plastic shopping bag from his other pocket.

"You!" he shouted at the jeweller, "Fill this up! Now!"

He attempted to throw the plastic bag to the jeweller, but it fell to the carpet. The would-be burglar squatted to pick the bag up, and very shortly found himself pinned to the floor, Les Hastings' Glock 27 pressed to the back of his head.

"You," growled the detective, "have just _fucked up_ my whole day, you know that?"


	2. To Serve and Protect

Sasha Kuroda-Kirschstein wasn't sure what other godfathers looked like. Hers had light brown skin and freckles and springy, curly hair. Uncle Chris, _her_ godfather, had eyes the colour of syrup and dark eyelashes. Sometimes he had a beard on his chin and sometimes he didn't. He had three silver earrings near the top of one ear and his boots jangled when he walked. Uncle Chris had bracelets made of coloured string, and he smelled better than anyone Sasha knew; like sandalwood and candy.

_"Why is it a godfather?"_

_"What, Sashmo?"_

_"Why God? godfather?'_

_Uncle Chris had stopped playing and looked at her, as she stood at his knee. He had a hole in the knee of his jeans, and her small fingers were twisting the white strings which hung there._

_Uncle Chris had looked at Daddy. Jean had chuckled._

_"Well," Uncle Chris tilted his head, "I made a promise to your Daddy that I'd always look out for you. You know, take care of you if you ever need anything."_

_"Why?"_

_Uncle Chris had put down his guitar and leaned forward. He smiled, like he knew a secret._

_"Some people have godfathers that go to the same church their parents go to."_

_His hand skimmed the frets of his guitar thoughtfully, "Other folks, well…they find God in other places. I think people try and pick a godfather or a godmother that'll, you know…help guide their kid in the same way they would do, and keep their kid safe."_

_Sasha had thought about this for a minute. She'd put out a finger, touching the beaded string bracelet on Uncle Chris's wrist. Uncle Chris had two bumps on his wrist. He'd told Sasha that he had pins inside, holding him together. Sasha could only imagine the big safety pins on Armin's kilt._

_Uncle Chris had rolled the bracelet off, looped it double and pushed it over her small fist._

____________

"Uncle Chris!! Happy Birthday Uncle Chris!!" Sasha flew into the kitchen, brandishing a construction paper card she'd made.

"Boof!" Kojak tottered out of his bed, barking.

"Dude, sit!" Chris ordered.

"Woof! Boof!" Kojak wagged his tail, licking Sasha's ears.

"Dude, _sit!"_ Sasha echoed.

__________

Sasha stood on her step-stool, sleeves rolled up and hands washed. The counter in Uncle Les and Uncle Chris' kitchen was dusted with flour. Uncle Chris had his hair tied up in a black scarf. On the counter was a big wire sifter and a bowl.

"Okay Sash, pour the flour in," Uncle Chris nodded. Sasha dumped the flour through the sifter and Armin shook it.

Daddy wasn't helping. He wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He helped himself to one of Uncle Les's beers. He stood beside Uncle Chris with a hand on Uncle Chris' shoulder for a long time.

"Okay, baking powder," Uncle Chris prodded. "Two spoons, Sasha."

Armin reached out a hand, pecking the details into his phone. There was flour on his phone and on his glasses.

"Someone will need a bath later," Jean remarked.

"No," Sasha replied, "I'm being _careful,_ Daddy."

"Not you," Jean had chuckled. He gave Armin kisses, underneath his hair, and Armin spilled some flour.

"Daddy," said Sasha firmly, "Armin is _busy!"_

__________

Chris' phone rang, as Armin was cubing butter into small bits and squishing it into the flour. Sasha loved this part. It was so messy.

"Hello?"

A growl on the other end of the phone.

"What, Papi?"

Chris heard traffic, the whoop of a siren. Les sounded annoyed. "I don't have your present. I can't.....get it today."

Chris smiled. "I don't need any presents. I have everything I need."

"I tried to get it…."

Chris frowned. Les sounded so deflated. "Don't worry. See you later?"

"Feed the dog."

_____________

Les Hastings watched, with mounting annoyance, the line of yellow police tape that a patrolman was winding across the front of Wineberg's Jewellers.

"You caught the case?" Sandra Chang, his Lieutenant had arrived onsite.

"No," he growled, "I didn't catch damn-all. I was shopping."

"But it's your collar?"

Les rolled his eyes. "Collar? I don't know, Sandra. Kid's a junkie who tried to rob Weinberg's with a grocery bag and a starter pistol."

"See you back at the House?"

Les looked down at the sidewalk, broken promises weighing heavily.

"Pud, I got this." Toyeh was at his elbow then, pulling at her raincoat. "I owe you one. You kept my cover intact."

"You're supposed to go home today," Les reminded his partner.

"No, you go home. I'll let Sandra take me into the station for a witness statement. I'll do the paperwork."

Les clapped his partner gratefully on the shoulder and nodded.

__________

Les swung the big Buick into his parking spot behind the house in Riverdale. A grey drizzle dampened the Toronto afternoon, but a cheery, yellow light emanated from his kitchen window. The house was post-war red brick, and had been sectioned off into apartments which his grandparents had sublet. The kitchen, living room and dining room, as well as the sprawling sunroom, were located on the second floor, accessed through a walk-up in the front of the house, and a fire-escape in the back. The lower floor, garden-level rather than a true basement, contained the studio where Chris taught piano, guitar and voice. Bedrooms were on the second floor, and a third floor held a workroom.

Aside from moving in his belongings upon the death of his granny, Les had made no changes. The kitchen sported the same orange curtains, black-and-white tiled countertop and teakettle-patterned wallpaper. The fridge and stove were avocado, and the wooden cupboards had concave, chrome knobs. Sasha and Nadine loved looking at their upside-down reflections in the shiny knobs.

"Ooh, retro!" Armin Arlert had exclaimed delightedly. 

Les sat in the car, looking in through the windows as the cooling engine ticked and rain drummed on the roof. It still rankled him. He'd had such special plans for tonight. A birthday dinner with Armin and Jean, little Sasha and her pal Nadine Lee, and Chris' mother, Maris. He'd wanted them all to be there. He'd wanted to _ask_ , in the presence of Chris' family.

He glanced up at the kitchen window. There was Chris, his curls bound up in a scarf, holding Sasha up so she could grab something out of a top cupboard.

__________

Les entered the warmth and chaos of his house. In the kitchen was Rocky Joel Lee, the sax player from Chris's jazz group. Rocky Joel was a tall, broad, booming Dominican, dropping off his daughter Nadine to spend the night at Jean and Armin's. The two little girls stood on either side of Chris, watching as Chris rolled out the dough carefully for jam biscuits.

"Can I do it?" Sasha looked up Chris.

Chris placed her small hands at either end of the rolling pin. "Kay Sash, nice and even. Roll. Go on…"

_Chris had never seen the crime scene photos. Les Hastings had._

He leaned against the doorjamb, watching Chris.

"Good. Nadine gets a turn now. We need more flour…"

Chris looked up then.

"Hey!" he smiled, stepped over Kojak, to reach Lesley. Les pulled his boy close, planting a soft kiss onto his forehead.

"Happy birthday, baby. Sorry I got nothing for you."

"I don't care," The heady eyes looked up at him, "You're home."

__________

_I was home the moment I saw you._

It was sentimental hyperbole, and he knew it. It was a thought that he kept locked away, with his colourful jumble of treasures.

**ELEVEN YEARS EARLIER - OCTOBER 2004**

_Metropolitan Toronto Police Community Outreach Assignments_ read the squad room message board.

Constable Lesley Hastings had lost a cousin to drugs, and he'd volunteered for the _Straight Horizons_ program, which paired officers with first-time drug offenders, for one-on-one mentorship.

Six other officers were also participating, and thus Les had found himself downtown at central booking, watching through one-way glass as a group of young people was ushered into a holding area.

It had been October, 2004. He was 24 years old, and assigned to 31 Division.

It had been a baptism of fire; patrolling the drug corridors of northwest Toronto. He'd learned very quickly that he had good judgement, was observant, level-headed and practical. His Kevlar vest had saved his life twice, but had been of no use against a bullet that had caught him underneath his arm and sidelined him for four weeks.

It had been the families -  the children and the teens struggling for survival - that had kept him awake at night.

Lesley crossed his arms, watching the offenders each take a seat on benches, as instructed by the program leaders.

The door to the room opened, and a young man entered. Lost, or late, Hastings assumed.

He wore army pants, black buckle-boots and a frayed, mustard yellow sweater. He didn't slouch, or strut. He didn't square his shoulders in a show of defiance. Instead he looked about, without fear and with genuine curiosity. At the walls, the posters, the team leaders. And then, seemingly, straight through the glass at Les Hastings.

The boy had a peaceful, open face. Heady, heavy-lidded eyes the colour of lager. Full, cursive lips. A crazy head of curls. Freckles.

Lesley stared right back.

He just _knew_ that he'd end up being assigned this boy. He shook his head, sighed.

__________

Some time later, he'd opened the door to the small interview room. The boy was seated at the table, hands pulled into the arms of his sweater, flopped on the table in front of him.

 _Fuck._ Lesley was annoyed at his attraction to the young man. He reminded himself that he was here to help. Who knew what the boy's story was? He reached a hand across the table.

"Officer Hastings," he introduced himself abruptly. "And you are?"

A long-fingered hand emerged from the sweater-sleeve. The young man smiled serenely. 

"Hey," Les' hand was accepted. "Chris."

The fingertips rasped his palm. Les turned the hand over. Shiny callouses on the fingertips.

"Guitar," Chris told him.

"I…" Lesley sat down. He wasn't ready. For _any_ of this. Heat rising to his face, he realized he hadn't even unwrapped the _Straight Horizons_ course materials from their cellophane wrap. _It must look like he didn't care enough to prepare._ He flushed, ashamed.

"I…this is…" He stared down at the materials.

He tore off and crumpled up the cellophane, placing it on a corner of the table. The cellophane took it's time crackling, expanding. Les's belly tightened.

Chris watched the ball of expanding wrap, then looked at the materials on the table. The new, glossy orange cardstock had an enticing smell.

The cop was young. Under thirty. He was black, cleanshaven, and very tall.

His obvious lack of preparation, and complete lack of social varnish, made Chris trust him immediately.

"This one," Chris touched a finger to one of the pamphlets, _Program Introduction._

The cop, Hastings, opened the pamphlet. "Yeah. Um…..yeah. It says…."

"Don't you think Straight Horizons is a funny name?" Chris leaned forward. "Not everybody's _straight_ , dude."

Les plunked the pamphlet onto the table. What was that? A declaration? _An observation?_ He swallowed.

"Chris," he tried the name out. "Chris, the thing is this. Nobody wants to get busted for possession. Nobody plans to grow up and get _busted_ and sit in a stale little room. Nobody plans this. Can I be honest with you? I don't think either one of us is a pamphlet guy, you know? I can help. But I don't think my help gonna fit in a box."

Chris regarded Officer Hastings thoughtfully. He looked…well, not _angry_ , exactly. Serious? He had his uniform sleeves rolled up. His forearms were thick, his wrists articulated. He hunched at the table, keen, dark eyes watching Chris. There was no malice is this officer's face, no arrogance. Still, he was not a man to be toyed with.

"Are you high?"

"No," Chris whispered. It was not a lie, but not the whole truth, either.

"You'd test clean, right now?"

"No. But I'm not high. I don't get _high_. I don't use…..to get _high_."

Les Hastings knew he was out of his depth. What had he been thinking? He wasn't an addict in recovery, nor was he a counselor. And yet he wanted to keep this boy close by his side, and that wasn't going to happen. He scraped his chair back abruptly.

"Look," he swallowed, "We'll sort something else out. You need someone that's _not_ me." He pushed a notepad toward Chris.

"I don't know how you ended up in here. I don't think you belong in here. What's wrong with you? You put your details here."

He left the room, flushing hotly with his own cowardice.

Some time later, one of the team leaders for _Straight Horizons_ came to find him. "Constable?"

"Yes?"

"Here. Details from Chris Guthrie."

Les accepted the pages from the team lead. He'd been expecting a phone number and contact info. Instead, there were seven pages, filled in a slanted, spidery hand.

The team lead bid him goodnight. Les began to read.

_What's wrong with you?_

It was a haunting account, written in the simplest possible terms, that answered the question.

 _What's wrong with you?_ Les had blurted out. Not the language a mentor should be using, that was for certain.

And yet, here was the answer. An eight-year-old boy musical genius with synesthesia and anxiety disorders.

_Guthrie, Christian J._

Les tapped his computer screen. Chris Guthrie was in the system. So was his incarcerated father. So were crime scene photos that he couldn't unsee. Blood. A rolling pin.

By the time he'd finished reading the case file, and the letter that had been left for him, he was shaking, his belly cold, tears blurring the screen.

_Guthrie, Christian J. Age 8._

_The music begins in my spine, green-gold. I hear colours. I see how you taste. The music rushes through me, like blood, and I need to slow it down. I need a way to stop the world from spinning, so I can hear the music. So that's why I do it..._

__________

**2015**

Les snapped back to the warm scene in his kitchen. Sasha and Nadine were pulling on his trouser legs.

"Uncle Les," Sasha was impatient, like Jean. "Uncle Les, _jam biscuits!"_

He pulled Chris closer, strong arms wrapped tight in an uncharacteristic show of emotion.

"That's good," he looked down at the little girls. "How I got covered in flour?" He glowers at them and they giggle.


	3. Finding The Bridge

Her tapered fingers trailed along the spine of the book as she lifted it from the cart. The book's title appeared twice: once in print, and once in raised _braille,_ for blind readers.

_The Cabbage Princess._

 Children's section.

 She carefully placed the book at the left end of her trolley.

 The next title was: _Decoding The New Milennium: A Social Commentary._

Maris Guthrie had been blinded when her son was eight years old.She could still make out hazy forms of shadow and light, but that was all.

A heavy step in the hallway outside of the library, and a shape darkened the doorway.

"Hello," she smiled, a row of small white teeth in a kind face. "I'm afraid I've got to close up the library soon. Was there something in particular you needed?"

A rumbling chuckle. "Just you, is all."

She laughed. "Lesley! I won't be a moment…"

An older lady emerged from the library stacks.

"Maris?" the lady asked her, "Did I hear somebody?"

Maris turned her head in her assistant's direction.

"Tina, this's my boy. My _other_ boy. Lesley. He's Christian's partner."

"Ma'am," Les inclined his head, even though Tina couldn't see the gesture.

"Lesley, Christian not with you?"

"He's watching the potatoes."

Maris nodded. "Very well. Just let me get my things."

Maris picked up the telescopic white cane on her desk, extending it carefully.

"You have an arm for me, my dear?"

__________

Maris Guthrie lived at Glenwood, an inpatient care facility which sat upon four wooded acres on north Baview Avenue. She'd been legally blind for eleven years, and had lived in a shared apartment with her young son and her sister, until Chris was seventeen. At that point, the seizures she had experienced since the attack had intensified, along with tremors and memory loss.

Formerly an illustrator of children's books, she'd moved to Glenwood, where she'd accepted a position as the facility's librarian. Glenwood had both blind and sighted residents, and the library's materials were bilingual, featuring both printed text and _braille_.

Maris had a soothing, lyrical voice, and also recorded audiobooks for the library.

She walked with confidence along the hallway, leaning on her son's partner. Lesley was tense. She wasn't surprised. The two of them stopped in front of the facility's nursing station.

"Hi, Detective!" the young nurse greeted Les brightly. "Maris, I've put your evening pills in their case."

The nurse took Maris' hand, pressing the pill case into her palm. "Enjoy your dinner out!"

"Oh, I will," Maris nodded.

"And wish Chris a happy birthday for us. How old is he now?"

"He's turning twenty-nine. Twenty-nine years old."

They continued on to Maris' small room, where she gathered up her purse, sweater and slippers. She placed some picture books into a large bag.

"Alright my dear, let's be on our way."

__________

The car stopped behind the house in Riverdale. Les shut off the engine. Maris said nothing. A thick tension emanated from Lesley; he drew shallow breaths, as though inhaling deeply might crush something within.

Maris sat quietly. Her senses and intuition were sharp.

"Lesley Hastings," she ventured softly. "Have you, after these ten years, had a change of heart?"

She heard him swallow, the rasp of a slow hand running across his bearded jaw. A sigh. She imagined the square shoulders, bowed beneath some weight.

But his voice was firm. "No, Maris. Never that."

"But something has upset you."

"I've waited….I've waited _weeks_ for tonight. Weeks for this. It takes some nerve to do this…"

Maris smiled, reached to her left and placed her hand onto Lesley's arm.

"No good thing ever comes easy."

"Maris, I don't have it. I don't have the _ring_. I went to get it…"

"And?"

"And…" He shook his head, "Some fool, some crazy _fool_ pulled a starter's pistol and tried to rob the jewellery store, with me in it."

"Oh!" Maris' small mouth quirked into a smile, her other hand toying with the brooch she wore.

"I've got my nerve up but I can't do this _badly_. He doesn't deserve half an effort…"

Maris reached into her handbag, extracting a small box. She sat still for some moments.

"Here," she said finally. "I brought this for Chris. It belonged to his grandfather, in Argentina. My father. I was planning to give it to him…so he could give _you_ something back. Something from us, to welcome you into our family. Even though you're already family…."

"But…."

"No buts…we can't have this ruined for you, now can we? How about you take it now. You take it, and you give it to Christian…that is, if you still want to do that."

"I don't deserve you. I don't deserve him. What you all even want with a grumpy prick like me?"

Maris, who rather enjoyed salty language, laughed aloud.

__________

"Auntie Maris! _Auntie Maris!"_

She was bombarded with excited squeals and geriatric barking before she'd even stepped through the back door, into the kitchen.

"Auntie Maris," piped a chatty little voice, "Guess who it is?"

"Yeah, guess me, too!" a slightly huskier little voice.

"Sasha!" Jean's voice, from across the table, "Sash, let Auntie Maris take off her boots, please! How about you help _nicely_ , instead of being a pain?"

A tug on the strap of her handbag, and Maris grinned, picturing the two pigtailed heads, Nadine Lee's and Sasha Kirschstein's, pulling it open to peer inside.

"Auntie Maris, did you bring books? Are you going to read to us?"

"Yes, child, yes to all of that. Just let me get in the door first."

She reached out, and her son was there to greet her. The smile she gave him was loving and bittersweet. "Come here, you old man."

She put her arms around him. "Happy birthday, baby."

She breathed in the mix of patchouli, sandalwood, raspberry jam, onion powder. Pressed a kiss to his temple. There it was; the soft, unmistakable scent of her child.

"I'm so glad you're here, Mum," Chris gave her a squeeze.

He led her to the table.

"Mum Maris, so nice to see you!" Jean Kirschstein's voice. Playful, but a little tired; he'd been through an accident, through surgery.

Maris reached up and hugged him. "How you feeling? Things better?"

"Yes..it's taken time, but yes… _much_ better. Mum, I want you to meet my…my Armin. Armin, this is Maris Guthrie, Chris' mother."

"Armin," Maris said it carefully. "Armin, I have heard a lot about you!"

"I'm pleased to meet you," his voice was rain-soft. Of course it was…soft and grounded, to Jean's playful mayhem.

"Armin, would it be okay if I get a little look at you?" Maris asked. She held out her hands, placing them onto the young man's shoulders.

"Of course," Armin replied.

Maris' fingers acquainted themselves with Armin's face; brushing the fringe of bangs; the carefully-gathered ponytail, which, between Sasha and cooking was all but demolished; tracing the thick, well-shaped brows; the upturned nose and high cheekbones.

"Armin has blue eyes," Sasha supplemented.

"I see."

He was delicate, and fierce.

She reached sideways, snaring Jean's earlobe as if by magic, and giving it a twist.

"You mess this up," she warned Jean, "you'll have me to answer to!"

"Ow, mum! _I know!"_

__________

Jean wanted to tell the story, but he was laughing too hard. It was Armin that had asked the question: "How exactly did you meet Chris?"

Chris and Jean had looked at each other.

Chris had shaken his head, breaking off a piece of sourdough. "Aw, man…."

"Did you like each other right away?" Armin accepted the scalloped potatoes from Les, spooning some out onto his plate, and then onto Sasha's.

"Potaaayyytoooo" she cooed happily.

Jean snorted.

"He liked me fine," Chris chuckled. "I was too much like him, and he didn't like _that._ "

Jean answered Armin finally. "It was at college, which I told you. Second year, we were eighteen. So…" he dissolved into laughter.

"So," Chris picked up, "Marco Bodt and Jean were roommates. And Marco ran the student radio station at Humber…"

"You need to picture him," Jean held out both his hands, giggling "Marco was like… _mister retro_. He looked like Buddy Holly. He wore sweater vests and rolled-up jeans and had black-rimmed glasses. He was all nerdy-cool…"

Chris's shoulders shook. "Yeah, his radio show…"

"He had a morning radio show, like _early_ morning…it was called _Good Morning Vietnam_ …"

"No!!" Chris guffawed. "No it wasn't…."

" _Wake Up, Humber!_ " they chortled in unison. "Yeah, that was it! _Wake Up, Humber!_ "

"Anyway….Marco was supposed to do an interview on the radio station, with Chris. 'Cause Chris was like, this big _deal_ on campus. He was like…this musical prodigy, riding a scholarship…he'd had air-play on CBC, he'd won a Platt prize…"

"But I met you just before that, Kirschy…"

"You met him in my composition class." Rocky Joel Lee sat at the end of Chris and Les's dining room table, enjoying slow cooked ham and scalloped potatoes.

He'd been meaning to drop Nadine off and then head home, but the delicious food and good company had swayed Cherry Kirsch's sax player into staying for dinner.

"No, in morning session." Jean frowned.

"No, it was composition class, Kirschy."

"Oh yeah….."

__________

 

SEPTEMBER 2003

The original composition was to be worth twenty-percent of their grade in Advanced Composition. Rocky Joel Lee's classes were tough, and there was literally nowhere to hide. Jean regretted his choice of guitar to perform his work-in-progress; he normally composed on a keyboard. What had possessed him? And now, it was his turn to play for the small class of ten students in the Modern Jazz program.

He counted himself in, tapping his foot "One, two, three...It's not done," he looked up at his professor.

Rocky Joel Lee sat on a swivel stool, arms crossed across his broad chest, conductor's baton jabbed through the dreadlocks which fell in a long mane behind him.

"That is why….we call it a work in _progress_ , Mr. Kirschstein," his deep voice filled the classroom as he peered down at his bright, cheeky student.

"One, two…I don't really like it yet, sir..."

"Mr. _Kirschstein,_ " Professor Lee pulled the baton free and tapped on his music stand, "before _Christmas_ , please…"

Jean gulped, squirming on the stool. Counted himself in again and began to play….stopped…."Okay, but I like this part…"

He backed himself up a few bars, and played until he reached the bridge. Stopped as though he'd hit a wall.

"I hit a wall there," he shrugged.

"You killed it, man…" one of the trumpet students praised his piece. "Shit, Kirschy, _nice_ …"

Chris Guthrie dozed at the piano bench. He flinched, hitting the keys with a _plink._

Jean grinned. His composition was unfinished, but he knew it was good. He was Professor Lee's star pupil. He was a natural.

__________

The early autumn afternoon was winding down. Jean found himself in the music wing, trying to work out whether or not he needed his stand-up double bass for the weekend, and if so, whether he needed Marco's rusted sedan to take it home.

The rooms lining the music wing were settling down; a few toodles and noodles here and there. No practice this evening as the drama team had the auditorium. Jean loped down the hall, leather jacket flapping. He wore his hair in an undercut, the sandy shag spiked up like a crazed troll.

It was then that he heard it.

For a moment he wanted to laugh, then he wanted to piss himself, not entirely sure how to react…to the sound of a guitar playing _his composition._ Note for note. Was it a recording? He smirked, puffing himself up a little.

He stuck his head into one of the music rooms.

Guthrie. _Guthrie?_ It was the scholarship student, Chris Guthrie, playing his piece. Without music. Eyes closed.

Jean scowled.

He retracted his head, puzzling over this.

Chris Guthrie was not the new addition Jean had needed him to be. Jean understood prodigal creativity; he could accept it. As long as it came packaged in a quiet, inward, catatonic student; someone that sported button-down shirts, combed hair and a briefcase. Someone compliant. A wallflower.

No one was allowed to steal Jean Kirschstein's spotlight in the jazz program at Humber. He was flamboyant, charismatic. He studied his balls off. He practiced until channels formed in his fingertips and they screamed in pain. He mouthed off, told jokes. Professor Lee had no choice but to give him top marks, in spite of his cheek.

Chris Guthrie was not an introverted, well-scrubbed wallflower.

He was tall; fawn-skinned with insane hair, piercings and an off-the-hook brown leather jacket with a peeling Ché Guevara screen-printed on the back. His handspan was insane. His eyes were gold and he smelled of incense.

Chris was a street kid, and street _smart_ , and hilariously funny in a laconic sort of way.

He'd nudged into Jean's territory, and Jean was hotly jealous.

"Hey!" Jean stuck his head back into the music room.

Chris kept playing, one eye opening slowly, like a lizard king. "Dude….."

Jean scowled.

Chris paid no attention. He played the piece that Jean had written: the introduction, the second phrase, and then, improvising, strung together a bridge that was genius. It was the connector that Jean hadn't been able to find. He was livid.

"Hey!" he barked. "Do your own assignment!"

Chris looked at him. Blinked. Tried to process why the well-fed clown prince of the school was so angry.

Angrily, Jean yanked an instrument out of the racks, flopping open the sign-out binder.

Chris cocked his head. "What you wrote…it's fucking good, bro."

"I _know_ that," Jean's tongue was tart. "What you're doing is shit, _bro_. That's a shitty thing to do, showing someone up that you don't even know."

He looked up. Chris had the worst possible expression on his face; not anger, not resentment…he looked lost, hurt.

Jean's own vile behaviour was catching in his throat. Unable to look at the new student any longer, he wheeled, carting the double bass with him.

"You should try working on your own stuff. And it better not fucking sound like mine!"

He staggered out.

Chris stared at the empty doorway.

__________

Chris had lied to his mom. She'd just moved into Glenwood, and she wasn't well. They had her hooked up to a monitor, in an effort to learn more about her brain function, her seizures and memory issues.

He'd told her that the scholarship to Humber College had come with a housing bursary. It hadn't. He knew he could make rent money, somehow. Busking. Playing in bars. He could wash dishes.

Finding a place to live had proven to be more difficult than he'd anticipated. His Auntie and his mom had given up the apartment in Etobicoke, as Maris' income now went, for the most part, to Glenwood. His Auntie had moved in with her boyfriend.

Sometimes, he slept at a shelter. Sometimes, at the library. Having gotten into the program, he was now faced with the problem of needing a place in which to practice. He arrived at school as early as possible, and stayed as late as he could.

 _It will work out,_ he'd told himself. The only thing that mattered was that his mom was safe, and as well as she could be.

Chris arrived at Humber Radio at six-thirty one Wednesday morning. He was to be interviewed by a guy called Marco, for his program, _'Wake Up Humber'_ , which showcased young Canadian musicians.

He hoped he didn't smell.

Chris introduced himself to a female student that was in the small reception office. Through the glass, Chris could see a large, animated freckled boy, chatting into a mic and waving his arms around. A lively, animated soul.

He was asked to take a seat, which he did. Beside him, a radiator hissed and pinged. It was a cold morning. Chris shrunk down into the wool muffler that he wore around his neck and sighed. He was so sleepy. He'd smoked up, just to bring the runaway train in his head to a screeching halt. Now, hismind steamed pleasantly. His eyelids were heavy. He smiled.

At first, he didn't understand why they were so angry, when they shook him awake. It was nearly ten a.m. Apparently they'd tried to rouse him and all he'd done was mumble and thrash. He'd missed his interview with the radio host, and the guy, normally an affable happy fellow, was pissed.

And the bass player from advanced jazz was more pissed.

This wasn't what Chris had imagined college would be like. He'd wanted to make friends, and it seemed as though he was going to ruin everything, again.

 


	4. Jaco Pastorius

A poster of legendary jazz bassist Jaco Pastorius was tacked to the living room wall, in the apartment that Jean Kirschstein shared with Marco Bodt. The apartment was on the first floor of a house close to Humber's Lakeshore Campus.

Jean practiced in the living room, with Jaco. Jaco had been a genius. He'd changed the landscape of jazz bass. He'd also been mentally ill, misdiagnosed, shunned, and had fallen through the cracks of society.

 _If that's how we treat our treasures,_ Jean often mused, _what hope do the rest of us have?_

Jaco Pastorius had resorted to living on the street, at times. Out of hope and out of options. He'd died young, as a result of injuries he's sustained in a fight.

Jean fantasized about what it would have been like to have lived in the nineteen-seventies: a wild west of progressive jazz, heroin, and Vietnam backlash. He imagined himself being fearless and driven and focussed on his music, to the exclusion of all else. Holding his own against groups like Pastorius' _Weather Report_. _Steely Dan_. _Traffic._

Jean thumbed a single note on his electric bass, regarding the poster. 

_Plonk._

Jaco had long hair, a worn face and a fringed, suede vest.

What if he and Jaco Pastorius had been friends? Would Jean have been able to help him? Would Jaco have felt less alone?

_Um no. No he wouldn't have. Because when you signed out your instrument today, you were an absolute asshole to a new student. You were a jealous douche. You don't even deserve to look at Jaco._

Jean turned around, facing into the dining room.

Marco's commerce texts waited patiently for him on the table, filled with ledgers and exercises and equations that caused Marco to pull on his dark forelock, stretching it into a twist.

Jean sighed.

Above the TV was a black and white framed photo of his other idol, Dewey Gordon. Dewey was a jazz bassist as well. Like Pastorius, he'd vanished from the scene a couple of decades ago. Dewey Gordon had been an old-school gentleman in his heyday; dressed in crisp suits and felt hats. Dewey Gordon had treated his mistress, _Lady Jazz_ , with loving respect.

Conversations at parties were always the same: people finding out Jean was a music major and then assuming he was in a rock band, wanted to be in a rock band, or got kicked out of a rock band. No, he'd tell people, I study jazz.

They were always surprised that a rangy-looking brat with a spiked demi-mohawk and a Lucky Charms t-shirt studied jazz.

Jazz was rich, and deep, and steeped in history. The music was technical and structured; it was also random and masturbatory. There was always more to know. One was never the master; _Lady Jazz_ was in charge.

On the music stand in front of Jean was the sheet for his midterm performance; Jaco Pastorius' arrangement of _Teen Town_ , a near-impossible technical exercise for guitar, drum and bass.

Jean flexed his fingers. Tried to clear his mind.Just as he began a run of scales, he heard a knock at the door.

Good. Marco was back with dinner. Fuck rehearsing, he was hungry and grumpy.

He flicked the deadbolt, opening the door without bothering to ascertain who was on the porch. He took a few steps and turned around.

Chris Guthrie stood in his hallway, wearing a grey hoodie underneath his leather _Che Guevara_ jacket, ratty fingerless gloves and an orange scarf.

"Oh!" Jean's eyebrows shot up.

"Hey," Chris said softly, nodding his head.

Jean scrubbed a hand through his spiked crest. "Uh…."

Chris pulled a folded page out of his pocket, opening it. "This was up in the student lounge," Chris held out the flyer. "You looking for a guitarist?"

Jean frowned. In Chris' hand was the ad he'd posted, looking for a guitar and drummer to tackle his midterm with.

He sat down on the steps in the hall, trying to work out why Chris Guthrie was standing in his doorway, acting as if Jean hadn't been a colossal dick to him just a couple of hours ago.

"You want to come in?" he stood, gesturing toward the living room.

Chris nodded. His guitar was strapped across his back. He lowered it, following Jean inside.

Chris looked around curiously, at the hibiscus tree decorated with beer caps, the brown couch strewn with sheet music, the book heaped in the dining table. The poster of Jaco Pastorius.

"Jaco," he said quietly.

Jean wheeled, nearly bumping into Chris. Chris was an inch or two taller than he was.

"Dude, I'm sorry about today. I'm a moody prick. Sorry. Seriously." He held out a hand.

Chris took it.

"Cool. It's cool, dude. I get it."

"You do?"

"Yeah I…you live with Marco the radio guy, right?"

"Yup."

"Because…" Chris trailed off, "I owe him an apology too, for ruining his radio show. Is he here?"

"Nope. He'll be back, though."

"Can I wait?"

Jean shrugged. "Sure."

Chris' eyes wandered to the sheet pinned to Jean's music stand. "Shit, bro. _Teen Town_?"

"Yep."

"That's a fucking nightmare to master."

Jean said nothing. He found that he liked having Chris Guthrie in his living room.

Cautiously, as though not to avoid startling a cat, he gestured toward Chris' guitar case. "So….uh….you wanna goof around maybe?"

A low chuckle. "Cool, cool."

Jean crossed his arms. "You think you can stay awake?"

Chris laughed then, raising an eyebrow at Jean. "You think you can keep up with me?"

__________

When Marco Bodt leapt up the porch steps and slammed into the apartment swinging a bag of submarine sandwiches, he was greeted by a wall of sound coming from the living room.

 _Huh? Who was here?_ Someone practicing with Jean. A guitarist. Whomever it was, they were one hell of a musician.

Marco ducked into the living room. Jean looked up, gave him a quick nod, without breaking rhythm. Beside him was Chris Guthrie on guitar, eyes shut, face serene, fingers flying over the frets.

"Jeezus," said Marco.

He pulled out his phone, hit 'record' and placed it onto the coffee table. It was the first recording ever made of the duo that would go on to form _Cherry Kirsch._

__________

Sometime later, after a good deal of playing, punctuated by some chatter and snorts of laughter, Chris Guthrie came into the dining room, easing his tall frame down into a chair beside Marco.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey yourself," Marco had a pencil stuck in his mouth.

"I actually came over to say sorry. To you." Chris ventured. "I didn't mean to ruin your radio show."

Marco looked at him levelly, disappointment registering in the warm brown eyes. "I won't lie, man. You left me in a bit of a spot."

Chris edged his chair a little closer to Marco. "Well uh…do you want to talk now, maybe?"

Marco sat back. Crossed his arms across his chest. He tapped his phone, playing back the session he'd just recorded.

"Can I use this?"

"Sure," Chris nodded.

"No!" Jean hollered from the living room.

"Jean, c'mon," Marco yelled.

He said to Chris quietly, "He always needs his ego stroked a bit."

Chris laughed.

"C'mon, Kirschy!" Marco repeated.

"Are you going to ask me questions too, then?"

Marco rolled his eyes. "Yes. Yes Jean, I will ask you questions."

Marco opened the recording app on his laptop, plugging in his mike.

"So yeah…" Chris began slowly…"I _see_ sound, sometimes…like seeing colours. Green. Gold. It's hard to put into words…it's a condition I have. The word for it is _synesthesia_ …"

And Chris talked; about senses, music, performance, influences, passions.

Marco nodded, asking him questions.

Jean Kirschstein, for once in his life, shut up and listened.

__________

Later, Jean stood out on the porch with Chris, having a smoke.

His fingers burned, and he was flush with satisfaction. He'd never played with anyone like Chris Guthrie before.

"So Chris, man…"

"Mmm?"

"So like…was there…a _reason_ why you were playing my comp?"

"Yeah," Chris nodded, "Yeah, bro. It's simple. I liked it. It calmed me _down_. It made me _feel_ good."

It was praise; though not the type of praise Jean had been expecting. It made him think.

"Yeah? Cool. So uh…do you still remember the bridge you played?"

"I do."

"You wanna maybe finish it together?"

"You sure you want me in it?"

"Yeah. I want you in it."

__________

"Was it good?" Armin sat at the dining table, one leg curled under his backside, leaning forward and listening.

Rocky Joel Lee shook his head and laughed, remembering.

"The two of them gave me the headache of my life, Armin. There is not enough time in the day to explain the pain…"

Armin chuckled. He turned to Jean, nuzzling. "You're lucky you had any friends," he observed.

"Daddy, you didn't think about the other person's feelings," Sasha summarized.

"I know, Sash. You're right. And Uncle Chris gave me something very special. He was the first person to tell me that my music made him feel good."

"Uncle Chris, what happened then?"

Jean laughed, his eyes meeting Chris's.

"Well, Daddy and Marco and I got to be best of friends."

"Did you live in that house, too?"

"Nope. I got a job at Brighton. I washed dishes and cleaned bathrooms and bussed the tables and they let me live in a little room upstairs. But I went over to your Daddy's house alot. We went to concerts, we studied, we…well, we tried to stay out of trouble."

"You didn't try very damn hard," Les remarked.

"I wouldn't give those days up," Jean's face softened as he met Chris's eyes. "Not for anything in this world."

__________

OCTOBER, 2004.

The bust at Rivendell Musicfest had been a wake-up call. Marco and Jean had barely had time to shove the wadded-up tinfoil of bud into Chris' hand before the cop had stopped them.

"Do it," Chris had hissed moments before. "Give it to me! Don't blow your ride."

Chris would explain to the cops that it was medicinal or something, and he would wriggle out of it. Guthrie always landed on his feet.

Jean didn't get busted, and neither did Marco. Chris got picked up.

Jean had wandered into the living room the next morning and taken a long, hard look at Jaco Pastorius. He'd still been standing there when Marco had crept into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of tomato juice to ease his pounding head, and sat at the dining room table, staring into space.

__________

Chris imagined that most people were nervous, or fearful, or angry as they sat in the tiny police interview room at the metal table. Not all police were good. Police could hurt you, and get away with it. Police could twist things.

He'd seen the good, and the bad.

Lesley Hastings had filled the doorway, blustering into the room without ceremony, juggling shrink-wrapped Straight Horizons course materials, a coffee, a binder and a jacket.

The constable had a grounded energy that caused a heaviness in Chris' belly. He wore his uniform with a sort of rumpled resentment that intrigued Chris. This was not a man that hid behind a badge.

He wore a scowl which wasn't directed at Chris, and his dark eyes seemed to pin Chris to the aluminum chair.

Constable Hastings had informed him, after a few minutes of conversation, that he was ill-suited to manage Chris' program. He'd left Chris alone, with a pencil and a lined notepad.

 _Give me your details_ , he'd said.

As he sat alone in the box, Chris had no idea what time it was. He was becoming anxious, his heart racing, his mind jangled. He had practice to attend. He had schoolwork to do. He'd begun to shake, unable to organize his thoughts. He'd been picked up with enough weed to earn him a visit to 31 Division. And as soon as he was done here, he'd be on his way to find more, to calm the sensory overload that got in the way… _of everything._

He began to cry, tears working their way past a sharp lump in his throat, spilling over the dark lashes.

He wondered if some smug cop on the other side of the one-way mirror was watching, thinking that he was a spoiled crybaby.

If they only knew the truth.

__________

Constable Hastings wasn't there, when Chris returned the following week. He'd sat in the small room, alone. No one came.

__________

Les lay awake in his darkened bedroom in the Riverdale house that had belonged to his granny. He was coming up on a double-shift and needed sleep. Sleep however, would not come. When he shut his eyes, he saw crazy curls and full lips and gold eyes full of pain.

He'd told the young man, Chris, that he wasn't able to provide the kind of mentorship that Chris needed. Or had he? Had he actually _told_ Chris, in explicit terms, that he wasn't coming back?

Les had a sinking feeling that he'd been less than clear.

What had happened to Chris? Had he showed up today, and waited, alone?

This thought precipitated a pain that caused him to scratch vaguely at his chest through his t-shirt. _Damn…_

He'd gone to his lieutenant midweek and informed her that he had concerns about his ability to mentor effectively, and he'd have to perform Community Outreach in some other way. He'd been assigned to visit schools and talk about bicycle safety to primary schoolers.

He lay in the dark of his room, listening to the mournful whistle of the GO Train to the south.

His phone buzzed. Les rolled his head, looking at the clock. 2:14 a.m.

"Hastings."

Nothing on the other end of the phone. He listened. A faint rush of traffic. Rain. Was it raining?

It only took him a second to put it together. He'd given the young man his card. He shut his eyes.

"Officer Hastings?"

"Yeah."

"This's Chris."

Les pressed his lips together, sat up and propped his elbows on his knees, the phone jammed into the crook of his neck.

"Hey Chris," he swallowed. "You okay?"

A long pause, during which Lesley heard shuffling, what might have been a streetcar, and then, soft and teary: "No."

Les didn't rush the boy. He was by this time fully awake, listening intently.

"Officer Hastings…you didn't come. Today. So I'm just calling to say sorry. Whatever I did wrong, I'm sorry."

Les waited.

"I was like…I was surprised by you. I dunno." The boy's voice was husky.

Les took a deep breath. "I was surprised by you too, Chris."

Les stood and padded to the window, trying to steady his nerves.

"Chris?"

"I'm still here."

Out of his window, Les watched as a newspaper van rolled up the darkened street, stopping periodically to allow the driver to refill the paper boxes.

"Chris, either the program is good, or it's not. I really don't know."

He heard Chris' breathing; uneven, anxious.

"Thing is, I can't be in that program with you as a police officer...and see you _outside_ the program at the same time."

The rain had arrived in Riverdale; it spattered the window and sent the newspaperman scrambling for cover.

"I would like to see you again. But not at work. Just…just as two guys talking. About whatever you want...whatever you need."

There. It was said. Les sagged against the wall.

"Lesley?" It was the merest of whispers. "Lesley?"

Les crossed the carpet, opening the shuttered doors of his closet and pulling on a sweatshirt.

"Where are you, boy? I'm coming to get you."


	5. Falling

OCTOBER, 2004.

Some rookie meathead at the Academy Gym had decided to run his mouth. He'd seen Justine, all six-feet-two inches of her. He'd watched the small group of Corrections Officers she trained with give her a wide berth around the machines. He'd mistaken her habitual scowl for bitchiness. He had also noted, with derision, her pink cross-trainers and her colourful Pokemon water bottle.

She was loading a bar at the bench press with upwards of one-hundred pounds when he sauntered up to her.   

"You bench your weight?" he asked her.

Justine ran the back of a gloved hand across her chin, her dark eyes appraising the guy. He was goading her. Her mouth quirked.

"I bench _your_ weight," she replied evenly.

Hoots. Her co-workers at Toronto East Detention Centre had seen this before.

Justine adjusted the velcro strap on her glove, and straddled the bench.

The newbie, thickset but short, appraised her, taking in the squared shoulders and powerful quads.

"You still here?" Justine asked him without looking up.

"Prove it."

One manicured eyebrow raised, slowly. "Excuse me?"

"There's no way you can bench my weight. You're running your mouth."

"Maybe you should just go about your business."

She was quietly angry now. It wasn't the challenge that's annoyed her; she got that day-in, day out. This wasn't a friendly exchange; the guy's undertone was derisive; his entitled, belly-forward posture denoted that she was an encroacher. She didn't know if his ego was pricked by her race, her gender or her femininity. She didn't care.

"Raj," she spoke to one of her fellow Corrections Officers, "Go weigh this tourist."

The 'tourist' weighed in at one-hundred and seventy-three pounds.

Justine eased herself down onto the bench, and nodded to Raj to spot her. She clean-pressed one hundred and seventy five pounds, slammed the bar home with a clank, and sprang off the bench.

She stood toe-to-toe with the rookie. He had to look up to meet her eyes.

"You," she said quietly, "you have alot of work to do. There is…" she leaned in, "no room up in this job for your ego, your contempt, or your mouth. You think hard about what you want from this."

She grabbed her towel and turned on her heel.

Saw him, leaning against a machine, watching her. He grinned, showing the tiny gap between front teeth that he shared with her. He was sourly handsome when he frowned, and gorgeous when he smiled.

"You should smile more," she took a swig from the Pokemon water bottle.

"You done?"

She nodded.

"Where's Olli?"

"The playroom. Wanna go for a run?"

"Sure," Les Hastings fell into step beside his twin sister, Justine. She glanced up at him. "Hey, what happened to your face?"

"I was gonna ask you the same thing."

She raised a hand to her scraped cheek. "Oh, yeah. I got a food tray in the face."

Les snorted.

"Me, it was windy out and I was getting something from the trunk of my car, and the trunk cover came down, right across the bridge of my nose."

"One of us is lying," Justine pursed her lips, "or one of us is just dumb."

__________

"Dumb!" She jabbed a finger at his chest. "Damn, Lesley. Why?"

They'd run four miles, through the Don River Valley, cross country. The valley was ablaze with fall colours, red and gold.

Lesley strode through a stand of birch, the fallen leaves carpeting his path in butter yellow. He raised his arms over his head, stretching as he walked. Under his right arm, a shiny pink scar split his underarm hair and puckered. It still hurt Justine to look at it.

Justine walked beside him, sneakers crunching, glowering.

"Say again?"

"I don't have to explain myself twice. Hell, I don't have to explain myself _once_ , Teeny."

He stopped, head tilted back, sweating, feeling the low autumn sun on his face.

Justine folded her arms across her chest, watching the traffic thrum along the Don Valley Parkway, in the distance.

She was curious, and if she wanted to know more, she'd have to moderate her tone. She and her twin were equally stubborn; equally sure they knew what was best for everyone around them.

"Where'd you meet him? This…Chris?"

"I met him through work."

"That's not much of an endorsement."

"I met him through Community Outreach. Chris is a musician. He studies modern jazz at Humber College. He lived with his mom and his aunt, up until last year. His mom is blind. But now she's sick, too. She has seizures. She lives at Glenwood.

"What's that, a care home?"

"Basically. She has a room. There's no place for Chris, there."

"Why can't Chris live at school, or get a place like every other student?"

"He's trying. He's…."

"Les, he's a stray, and you're a mug. A big ol' muggins."

When her brother didn't respond, Justine stopped, regarding him. Her twin's face had softened, thoughtful. 

"Oh, no…." she shook her head. "Oh, don't _tell me_."

Les shrugged.

Her voice rose. "Aw, really Lesley? Really? He's nineteen. _Nineteen_!"

When it became clear that Les wasn't going to offer any explanation, nor any defense, she stalked away. He followed.

"We don't know," he ventured, "what it's like to have nothing, and need help."

"Mmm hmmm."

"Our family has a little bit of money. Teeny, can you imagine trying to raise Olli by yourself, at eighteen, without a place to live? Having to hold down whatever job you could get, having to quit school? We got to go to school. We both graduated. We both earn a living now. Because we were looked out for."

"Do not bring Oliver into this conversation. This conversation is about you taking on a young man, with problems, on top of your own life, your own things you got to get done…."

"Teeny, we lost our parents. That's a hard thing, for young kids. But arms went around us, and we were loved. Granny and Pop loved us. Uncle Rubes loves us. We have a big family. We had choices. _Choices_ , Teeny."

Her steps slowed. Her head dropped.

"Is this about him? Or about you?"

"Both."

"You're twenty-four." she repeated. "Five years is a big gap, at this time of life."

"So? What does age prove? Leon was older than me…"

"I knew you'd say that…"

"And Leon cheated on me." Les reminded his sister.

Lesley wanted to tell her that the chemistry between himself and Chris Guthrie was only that for now; chemistry. That there were things to untangle, first. Things to learn. That there was time.

"So what is he to you? He's your boyfriend?"

"For right now, Chris just lives in the house with me, and he's going to get himself settled down. He goes to school. I go to work. I'm telling you so that you know someone's staying in the house."

She toed the leaves with her sneaker. Sighed. Then, with resignation: "You're falling."

"Teeny, listen."

She held up a hand.

"I'm done with this for right now. Okay?"

"Okay."

It had gone better than he'd expected.

__________

Les showered and changed at the gym, and made his way home. He tried to submerge Justine's reaction, but it kept bobbing to the surface.

His sister was a blunt, grouchy know-it-all. He should know. But her instincts and intuitions were as sharp as her twin's.

Chris had been in the house for less than a week. Perhaps Justine was right. Maybe he _was_ in over his head. Perhaps this was the wrong time in his own life, for him to be taking on another man's problems.

He was twenty-four years old, a stand-out patrolman, with eyes on both the Toronto PD K9 Unit, and also the Homicide Division. He and Justine had inherited their grandparents' assets; Lesley had moved into the house in Riverdale, and Justine had taken on their investments, for Olli.

He had his health, his strength, and his Pop's beat-up Buick.

Yes, perhaps Chris Guthrie needed to move on.

He turned the back door key and entered the kitchen.

Something smelled delicious. His belly rumbled involuntarily.

On the counter was a large paper take-out bag. _Churrasqueira_ , it read. Chur - what?

He hung his keys up.

Listened. Music. A soft, slow, jam was emanating from the large, wrap-around sunporch at the back of the house.

He walked into the dining room. The table was set for two, with mathematical precision. Each piece of silverware, each plate in it's place.

On the sideboard, a single tumbler was placed, beside a bottle of scotch malt.

He walked back into the kitchen. Chris had made a salad, cut a loaf of crusty bread and laid out two coffee mugs and a package of macaroons.

The house was warm, orderly, welcoming.

Les looked up. Chris stood in the kitchen doorway, wearing a Purple Haze t-shirt and torn jeans. And Lesley's cardigan. Chris was by no means short, but the large sweater puddled, hiding all but his fingertips.

Les smiled. Chris' sleepy eyes widened slightly, in surprise. Lesley laughed. "I smile, sometimes."

"Smells good, right?" Chris moved toward the takeaway bag. "Charred Squirrel."

"What?"

Chris chuckled. "Portuguese BBQ. Chicken. This is the best chicken you'll ever eat. Kirschy introduced me to it."

"Who?"

"Jean."

"Who's that?"

"Bass player. School."

Chris began unpacking the chicken, potatoes and gravy. He began making two plates. They sat.

Les looked over the carefully set table, and the two identical plates Chris had made.

"When you live with a visually-impaired person," Chris said softly, "it's best if everything is orderly. We keep things the same. Kept them…"

Lesley reached out a hand across the table. Chris looked at it, looked up. He eased his fingers out of the sweater, taking Les's hand.

"I don't claim to know where we come from, or where we're going. But I say a little prayer. Is that okay with you?"

Chris's fingers tightened, tingling in the other man's warm hand. He nodded.

__________

APRIL 2014

"Amen to that," Rocky Joel Lee leaned back in his chair, pushing his plate away. "How many, many wonderful meals we had since then?"

"Armin, can I be excused?" Sasha slid down in her chair, halfway under the table.

Armin stabbed a carrot onto Sasha's fork. "One more,"

A little growl.

Nadine Lee looked at her father. "Aren't you going home?"

Rocky Joel's laugh rumbled.

"You were supposed to go home for No Kids Night."

"Uh oh," smirked Jean.

Rocky Joel pointed his dinner fork at Jean. "Listen you…."

__________

October 2004

Humber College Lakeshore Campus was impressive. It contained classrooms, recording studios, performance spaces, housed in modern glass and gleaming wood.

It took Lesley some time to find the studio in which Chris's second year performance class was underway.

He walked along the hallway, looking with interest through the windows, into the studio spaces.

He spotted Chris, hair tied into a black scarf, from which two springy curls had escaped, dangling over his forehead. _Getaway curls_ , Les called them.

Standing near the back of the ensemble was an impish-looking kid with spiked, sandy hair, wearing a grey Henley with a sleeveless plaid shirt overtop. He leaned forward over his double bass, saying something to Chris. Chris shook his head laughing. The bass player smirked.

"Mister Kirschstein!" A loud, island-accented voice. "Bar sixteen, please!"

The kid nodded, face suddenly all business, and began to play.

Les regarded the music professor. Dominican, if Lesley had to hazard a guess. He was broad-chested, dredlocks gathered into a neat mane, baton in one hand, sitting on a stool. He wore silver-rimmed reading glasses.

"No!" the prof tapped the stand in front of him. "Don't rush it, Jean."

Very hesitantly, Les Hastings stepped into the doorway. He wore his Toronto Police blues, kevlar and belt.

The professor turned, regarding the armed police officer with some surprise. Then, he pointed his baton like a wizard's wand, directly at the smirky bass player.

"What," he bellowed, "did you do?"

"Me?" squeaked the kid. "Nothing!"

Chris was the next culprit in line. "Then you, Mister Guthrie?"

Chris raised his head. Bit his lip. Lesley held out a lunch bag.

"Looks like I forgot my lunch…"

"I wish I forgot _my_ lunch," a female trombone player sighed.

Les regarded the professor. "Sorry," he nodded.

"Professor Lee," beamed the Dominican. "and you are?"

"Hastings," Les answered.

__________

APRIL 2014

Armin was giggling insanely at the table. "Really? Oh this is too _good_ …."

He turned to Les. "What did you think of Rocky Joel?"

"Loud," Les replied. "But he pulled me up."

"What do you mean?"

"He excused himself and came out into the hall with me. Wanted to know who I was, what I was about and what I wanted with Chris. He was protective, and rightly so. He asked me if Chris and I were living together and what my...what the nature of my interest was."

"No, he didn't!" Chris's jaw dropped.

"I did," Rocky Joel nodded. "Sure thing, I did."

Chris looked at Les. "What did you say?"

Les shook his head.

"Yeah, what did you say?" Jean persisted.

Les shrugged simply. "I told the truth."

"Which was?" Armin leaned across the table.

"That I had feelings. And that I knew it wasn't yet time."

"You said that?" Chris flushed.

"I said that, baby. I knew you were the one."


	6. Purple-Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter discusses Chris’s anxiety, and self-medication. The outcomes are positive. However, please proceed according to your own needs and comfort level. 
> 
> There are no cookie-cutter solutions for anxiety disorders, nor for other mental or physical illnesses. This story presents one fictional character's experience.

"Sasha, Nadine…" Maris placed her napkin carefully alongside her plate. "How about we have a look at the books I brought in my bag?"

"Yay!" The two little girls scrambled away from the table.

"Nadine, my dear!" Rocky Joel caught his daughter as she zoomed past. "Please. Let's show Auntie Maris some manners. No jostling about, okay?"

"Aren't you going home soon?" Nadine asked her father.

Maris rose, as did Armin, who began collecting the dinner plates. "I'll make some coffee. Chris, that was _so_ good, thank you!"

"Best bit to come, dude." Chris smiled.

"Yes," Maris smiled, "warm jam biscuits and coffee."

Maris felt a tiny hand in hers. "You can come with _me_ ," Sasha chirped.

"And, Sasha?" Jean prompted. "How else do we help?"

"A few steps ahead," Sasha guided Auntie Maris, "And Kojak is laying right in the doorway. Kojak, _move please!"_

____________

**OCTOBER 2004**

Everything was okay. Until it wasn't.

Chris woke, burrowing deeper into the sleeping bag that served as his quilt. He slept on a single bed in the corner of a long, open room in the garden-level basement of the house in Riverdale.

The basement was a walk-out; there was a glass door leading to the backyard, and a ravine behind the house, with a creek. Beside the door, a wide set of stairs led up to the first floor kitchen door. Chris's room was bright; it's panelled walls and orange carpeting unchanged for decades.

On the other side of the wall, the furnace groaned to life. There was now a distinct autumn nip in the air. Chris was grateful; he had a warm place to sleep, room to practice and study, and he'd been made to feel included in Les's daily routine.

Les fascinated Chris. Although only twenty-four, he had a grounded strength that seemed to anchor him. He was a grouch, except when he wasn't; at such times he laughed loudly and freely, his bright smile with the slight gap causing a tiny lurch in Chris's belly.

Chris's compulsion for order was a result of living with his visually-impaired mother. Their small, shared apartment had been logically ordered, everything in it's place. Almost unconsciously, Chris had arranged Les's spice rack in alphabetical order, stacked the tins in the pantry, picked up socks, moved items out of the entryway and off of the stairs.

Evenings were spent companionably. Chris had taken to practicing and studying in the sunporch overlooking the ravine, while Les spread out his own work, the Chicago Bears game on the flatscreen TV, muted.

Despite their ease with one another, Chris reflected snuggling deeper into his nest, he hadn't felt the same…or perhaps heard the same… _tone_ from Lesley since their first phone call.

His first call to Les had been equal parts a cry for help and an acknowledgement of a connection…an attraction. He'd felt instantly safe in Les's presence; as though he'd come home.

"Where are you, boy?" Les had said into the phone, "I'm coming to get you." Breath had stopped in Chris's throat at Les's protective, _possessive_ tone…he saw and felt it...as _purple-red._

_I'm coming to get you. You are mine._

During those first weeks as housemates, Les had spoken freely to Chris; about his grandparents, who had owned the Riverdale house since before the Second World War. About his own parents, who'd been killed by a drunk driver when Les and his twin sister Justine were thirteen years old. About his uncle Rubio, his cousins and aunts and friends. These people had rallied around Lesley and Justine; hundreds of loving hands placed over their wounds, staunching the flow of their grief.

Chris understood grief. He understood fear and loss and uncertainty. But whereas Lesley had been hardened by trauma - calcification fortifying over bone - Chris had come unglued; the bright pieces of his mind whirling and tumbling like so much broken stained glass.

For a while, Chris had been able to calm his anxiety by retreating to a warm, milky place within his agile mind. A place that soothed his distress. The older he'd gotten, the more difficult it had become to self-soothe; his vital creativity had burst open, his music demanded to be brought to life. His creativity required a vulnerability that wrecked him. He'd had to leave the safe corner of his mind to feed the whirling muse; and in had flooded anxiety, nightmares, racing thoughts.

When his mother's seizures had intensified and she'd gone to live at Glenwood, the last straws of Chris's calm had drifted downriver. He'd begun smoking dope, regularly.

He didn't get high. The nauseating kaleidoscope inside of his head settled into something beautiful, lyrical. He was calm. Thoughts and feelings and hurts retreated obediently back inside of their shoe boxes. He could function.

Chris squeezed his eyes shut against the bright morning light. Les was a police constable. He was living in this man's house. And today…what was today? Thursday? _Oh God, he just remembered that he'd promised to rehearse with Jean, for his fall performance. He enjoyed collaborating with Jean so much that he'd fallen behind with his own piece. And his position paper. And he hadn't been to see his mom in a week. And he was supposed to work at Brighton on Friday and Saturday night. What would happen with his job? He no longer needed the room he'd been given in exchange for working there. Would they pay him? Where would he get money?_

Chris couldn't breathe. He rocked himself rhythmically. _Damn. Damn._ He'd hoped that some magic would rub off of the orange carpeting in the room he'd been given, and make the anxiety stop.

__________

"Kirschy?"

"Dude," Jean replied.

It would be one of those conversations. Chris would sit on the other end of the phone, communing without words.

Jean plunked his mobile phone down onto the bed, so that he could put on his socks.

"Hey," Chris said softly. Coughed. "You…you got anything?"

"Got? - no. No, man…me and Marco don't have any. We stopped. After Rivendell. I…I thought we _all_ stopped?"

"Yeah," Chris looked down at the orange carpet. "Marco doesn't have? For sure?"

"No. Marco's cleaned up, he's got varsity basketball starting soon."

"Yeah."

"Guthrie?"

"Yeah?"

"You okay?"

"Uh-huh. Later."

Chris hung the phone up. He pulled his forearms tight against his ribcage, hugging himself and trying to breathe.

__________

Chris cut school.

He took the subway, and then the bus all the way to Rexdale, in the northwest part of the city. This was Les's division, and he half expected to see the tall constable in a patrol car, or on the street. Rexdale was tough, bleak and grey in the October afternoon. 

He hopped off the bus, pulling his black wool cap low over his ears. He cut through a park, it's grass no more than brown stubble, and made his way to the basketball courts.

Like Marco, Chris could play basketball. Unlike Marco, he'd spent time on the hard street courts of the Corridor. He'd grown up here. A few guys were milling around the courts. Chris hung out by a brick wall. He didn't have to wait long. A guy he knew from the neighbourhood approached him. He took Chris's money and shoved a dime bag into his hand.

Chris didn't stick around.

On the way home, sitting on the bus, his skin began to crawl. He hadn't gotten anything at all done; no homework, no visits, no nothing. He'd turned the ringer off on his phone, as it was starting to freak him out.

__________

When he got back to Riverdale, it was getting dark. The quiet of the house was calming. Shaking, he toed off his boots, and hung up his jacket.

By the time Les came home, Chris had set the table and cut up a crusty loaf to have with their crockpot stew. He'd collected the newspaper, taken out the trash and the recycling. These simple tasks had left him exhausted and empty.

He wasn't exactly sure what had prevented him from smoking the bud he'd bought. Something had. The little bag was stowed in his guitar case.

He and Les had read during dinner; Lesley perusing the newspaper, Chris staring blindly at music exercises. The exercises were to do with sightreading; applying the correct number of sharps and flats after the clef, transposing keys.

Chris had a thick, pounding headache. His phone buzzed again. He tried to breathe, but the air was gluey. He began to sweat inside of his hoodie; clammy and cold.

He scratched at his arms robotically, the dinner table swimming in front of his eyes.

Then, a warm hand was closing over his red, raw scratched arm, muffling the sting.

"You stop scratching, now." Les's voice was gentle, soft. _Purple-red._

A sob escaped Chris. "I….fuck….. _fuck…."_

"I got you." and then Lesley was beside him, warm and solid, pulling Chris into his arms. "I got you, boy."

"Why…" Chris cried, _"Why….why…"_

The arms tightened protectively.

"I won't let go," Les murmured into the thick curls.

__________

**APRIL 2014**

Maris Guthrie sat on the couch, a little girl on either side of her. Nadine Lee had pulled three picture books out of her bag, placing them onto her lap.

Maris's graceful fingers played over the cover of each book, finding the _braille_ panel.

"This one," she chuckled, "this one is very funny. It's called _The Sugar Mouse Cake_. It's about a pastry chef and he has a little mouse for a best friend. Do you have a best friend?"

"Sasha," said Nadine.

"Who can tell me about the picture on the cover?"

"Well…" Sasha began, "there is a chef, and a mouse, and…"

__________

**OCTOBER 2004**

It had never occurred to Chris that he had permission to change his life…to put down the weight. To find a way through. What had seemed like fixed, immovable realities - school, due-dates, his job, his living situation - were, he had realized with Les's help - changeable.

He'd sat at the dinner table, sobbing, until he'd simply tired himself out. Les had sat with him until the evening had deepened into night. He hadn't relinquished his hold on the scratched-raw wrist; Chris had lain his head on the table, on top of Les's hand, and simply surrendered.

The following afternoon, he'd found himself in leafy Leaside, in front of a cheerful brick bungalow containing converted offices. A tidy plaque was mounted beside the door. It read:

_Dr. Petra Ral, Psychiatry_

_Dr. Auruo Bossard, Clinical Psychology_

A petite strawberry blond lady was in the front garden, arranging potted fall mums. She looked up as Chris climbed the stairs from the street.

"Hi there," she said cheerfully, "you must be Chris."

"I'm Chris," he nodded. The lady had a gardening smock on, printed with frogs. She wore a sunhat and had pink sneakers.

"How is Lesley?"

"Les…" Chris tilted his head. "Oh! You're…"

"Dr. Ral," she smiled, pulling off a glove to offer him her hand. "Lesley's doctor."

Chris nodded slowly. "Oh…like, after…" He gestured to his underarm.

Dr. Ral nodded, smiling. She reminded Chris of a chipmunk.

"You want Auruo," she gestured toward the door. "Go on inside!"

Thanking her, Chris entered a tidy waiting room. A receptionist with a headset greeted him. "Mr. Guthrie? You can go on in."

Things began making sense in the large, sunny office with the curved bay window. Chris had been expecting a desk, bookshelves and…well… _a couch_ …what he got instead was an affable looking man with a rubbery face, feeding fish.

The room was a tableau, in living colour. There were five or six fishtanks in the room. Each of these, Chris noticed, was a different colour. Soft, bubbling sounds emanated from the pumps.  _Yellow-white._

The room contained a low, Japanese table and chairs, cushions, tatami mats. It also held a variety of drums, sound bowls, mobiles and light-catchers.

"Whoa," Chris said quietly.

"Whoa indeed," the soft-spoken man agreed with him. He pinched a handful of fish flakes into a tank containing what looked like a grouper. Chris could not help but notice the resemblance between the grouper and the man, whom he assumed was Dr. Bossard.

Chris slipped his newsboy bag off of his shoulder and approached one of the tanks. It contained an angelfish; feathery blue fins and a striped body, like a zebra.

"Emperor angelfish," Dr. Bossard noted.

"Do…do you study fish?"

Dr. Bossard stepped around the aquarium. He wore a white shirt, cream slacks and Crocs.

"I enjoy fish," he nodded to Chris to sit, on one of the low chairs.

"I'm a clinical psychologist. I hold a Canadian Research Chair at the University of Toronto, and we are studying synesthaesia. Isn't that exciting?"

Chris looked around the room.

"What…uh…what do I do?"

"Today," the doctor pulled on his chin, "Today I just want you to breathe for me, Chris. Just breathe."

__________

**APRIL 2014**

Chris stands in the doorway, between the living room and the dining room. Les and Rocky Joel sit at the dining table, heads bent together, chuckling.

In the kitchen, Armin is yelping and twisting, trying to soak the dinner dishes as Jean holds him from behind, playfully smearing bubbles into the dishevelled blond hair.

In the living room, his mother reads carefully, her fingers skimming over the braille panels on the picture book's pages. She asks Nadine and Sasha about the pictures. She smiles, and nods.

Soon, Chris will warm the jam biscuits, and they'll sit for dessert and coffee. His mother's family, the Vasquez side, gave Chris his love of South American coffee. He had one summer in Argentina, when he was seven. His grandfather Vasquez had a low, rambling house, a kind heart and an iron fist. To those in his family, he was simply known as _Papi_. _Protector._

Chris feels a strong arm go around his middle. Les's soft voice in his ear, _purple-red_ : "Go sit yourself down, baby. They want to sing to you."

He turns his face into Lesley's neck.

"Yes, _Papi._ "


	7. Nobody Loves You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for DerBlaueDieter, a patient and wonderful soul!

**APRIL 2015**

Under the dinner table, Les Hastings felt a bump against his leg. Then another, with more insistence.

He looked down into the face of his German Shepherd dog. His dark eyes softened.

"Nobody loves you," he crooned.

Kojak made a noise in his throat.

"You want to go out?"

A sharp bark.

Les pushed away from the table. "Excuse us."

He opened the kitchen door, watching as Kojak negotiated the back stairs, slowly and methodically, and sauntered onto the lawn. Les leaned against the porch railing.

He'd hoped some fresh air might ease his nerves. No such luck.

The screen door banged, and Armin joined him on the porch. Les looked sidelong at Jean's companion. The boy's hair was askew, damp with dish soap bubbles and his blue shirt was stained with jam, rolled up to the elbows.

"I wanted to look _nice_ tonight," Armin snorted. "You're always so put together."

For reasons Armin could not fathom, Les burst out laughing, shaking his head. "Lord help me, is that right?"

Kojak, having finished his business, tottered back up the stairs, pushing at Armin's thighs. Armin bent down to scratch his head. "I think Kojak finally likes me," he said quietly.

Les grinned. "Damn dog..."

__________

**December 2004**

 He heard the vehicles pull into the compound, tires crunching on snowy gravel.

He trotted back and forth in the dog run, yelping excitedly, breath huffing into the stainless December sky.

_He's coming! He's here!_

He rose onto his hind legs, planting his forepaws onto the wire fence, tail wagging excitedly. His kennel mates barked and whined, jostling for position.

Men and women in blue bomber jackets greeted one another in the parking lot, stamping against the bitter Toronto cold. Some of them went into the office facility; others approached the kennels.

A clang, as the gate to the dog run opened just enough to admit a woman. _Kyuushu_. She was here for Molly. Molly was Kojak's friend; a shepherd-hound mix.

Kyuushu was Molly's person.

Lesley Hastings was his.

Molly sat with barely contained patience, tail scrubbing the cement floor of the dog-run, as Kyuushu fastened her harness. Then, with a look backward, Molly was gone, trotting along beside Kyuushu to get into the work wagon.

Kojak pawed at the fence, watching her go.

Then, he saw the old Buick swing into the lot, chugging in the cold. He ran in circles, barking joyfully.

_Lesley!_

His person got out of the vehicle, strode toward the kennel and pushed open the gate.

Kojak bounded down the dog run, nosing the hand that was offered to him and then pressing against Lesley's jeans for a back scratch.

"Who loves you?" the patrolman ruffled the large head. "Nobody loves you.""

_Arf!_

"Wait here," Lesley said, rising to his full height, shouldering his bag and heading toward the Toronto Police Services K9 Unit office.

Ringo's handler had arrived; a noisy, freckled person that smelled of takeout grease and fun. Ringo sniffed at Kojak, as if to commit his scent to memory.

Kojak sat down, ears pricked, face trained toward the office door.

Presently, Lesley stomped out of the office, a scowl darkening his face, posture rigid. Kojak rose, tail wagging hopefully. Without glancing his way, Les held up a hand, stalked to his car, and the Buick screeched out of the parking lot.

Kojak tilted his head, wondering.

Tinga, a small, sleek sniffer dog was yelping beside him. Her person had entered the dog run, carrying the modified, silver flack suit that Tinga wore in the field. In short order, Tinga left as well.

By five p.m., the brilliant winter sky had darkened. The lurid yellow lamps outside of the K9 compound glowed yellow, catching whorls of fat snowflakes.

Kojak, now alone in the dog run, waited. His tail had long since stopped wagging. He lay down, resting his snout on his paws, eyes focused on the driveway.

Snow fell, sticking to his thick fur, then melting into silence.

Nobody came.

__________

Chief Inspector Ruth Oswald had just lit a Hanukkah candle with her son, when an insistent pounding was heard on her front door. Not merely a knock; this was the sort of thumping made with the side of a closed fist.

"Mom?" Micah looked up from the table.

Chief Inspector Oswald tapped her phone, checking her home monitoring service. Rolled her eyes. Sighed.

"Can you play for a few minutes?" she asked her child.

"Why?"

"Someone from mommy's work is here."

"Why?"

Oswald sighed.

She opened the door to find a tall, irate constable brandishing a folder.

With barely contained civility, he nodded to her. "Chief Oswald."

"Constable Hastings," she said wearily, though without a great deal of surprise. "I'm observing the holiday with my kid."

"This won't take long. You just have to straighten this out for me and I'll be on my way." Les replied.

Micah Oswald peered around the doorframe.

"Who're you?"

Lesley studied the child. "I'm Lesley. Who're you?"

"Micah."

"Happy Hanukkah, Micah. Sorry, but I need to talk to your mom real quick, is that okay?"

Micah, having lost interest in his mom's co-worker, drifted into the living room.

Oswald led Lesley into her study.

"Sit?"

Grudgingly, Les folded his long frame into one of her Eames chairs.

Oswald took the file from him, sat at her desk and opened it. She perused the contents carefully, looked up. Steepled her fingers in front of her.

"Hastings, I'm sorry."

Les half rose, "No, uh-uh. There is a mistake. Kojak is a great dog. He's fast. He's smart..."

Slowly, Oswald pushed the folder across her desk. "Hastings, his field scores are just too low. He's failed his stress test three times."

"Look," she offered him an apologetic smile, "Kojak had inner ear problems as a puppy,"

"I know that."

"He cannot tolerate loud noises,"

"He's getting better!"

"Gunshots, sirens, thunder, fireworks...these things make him nervous, and cause him to freeze."

"He's fine with me!"

"Lesley, you know that K9 officers need to pass, consistently, their stress and safety evaluations. He is a fantastic dog. He will make some family a wonderful pet. But I'm sorry, he won't be joining the K9 Unit."

Lesley glared.

"You, on the other hand, have been a standout in your group. We hope that you'll continue consider a pairing with another partner."

__________

Lesley drove down Rosedale Valley road, which merged with the Don Valley Parkway. Snow splattered against the windshield, and he gripped the wheel with both hands.

He flicked his turn indicator to the north offramp, then, at the last second, peeled into the southbound lane instead, earning him the angry horn of a transport truck.

__________

The officer on duty had called Kojak inside, poured his dinner kibble and changed his water. She'd murmured to him, giving him an affectionate scratch.

As soon as she'd gone back into the office, Kojak had returned to his vigil outside, watching the driveway.

He was the last dog of his class, alone in the kennel.

He whined a little, head sinking down onto his paws.

Then, twin pools of headlights flooded the driveway. The rumble of the Buick's engine.

Kojak bounded to his feet, baying.

Then Lesley was punching a code into the kennel gate, pushing inside and kneeling, his arms around Kojak's neck.

He scratched his head, patted his back and hugged him.

"Nobody loves you," Les growled affectionately.

He had Kojak's leash.

"Sit."

Kojak sat, straight and still, as Lesley put his leash on.

"Good boy," Lesley stood up, "Let's go home!"

Lesley was his person. And he was Lesley's.

__________

Strictly speaking, one ear-bud was not exactly _wearing_ an ipod while on duty. And in any case, Queen Bey sounded fantastic, even in one ear.

Police archivist Marcel Keane bopped and danced in the stacks, filing content and sorting evidence boxes.

Everything he added, moved or withdrew was annotated in his small, meticulous hand.

Marcel hummed, dancing along the row, stopping to push his bright red half-moon eyeglasses further up his pert nose.

He sashayed back to his desk, which fronted the steel-barred reception area.

On the other side of the bars in a blue TSP bomber jacket and thigh-hugging trousers, stood Lesley Hastings.

"Well, _hello_ Constable!" Marcel offered a bright, dimpled smile. "How are we today?"

"Hi, Bean."

"What've we got?" a neat, brown hand flashed through the bars, fingers wiggling.

"Running errands for homicide," Lesley mumbled.

Marcel stood, still bopping happily, and buzzed Lesley into the evidence stacks.

Lesley's habitual scowl seemed a little more embedded today, Marcel observed, glancing at the yellow form Les had given him and leading the tall officer down the row.

"Here we are. Dixon Guthrie. 112.37," Marcel announced. He swatted Lesley's firm, spectacular butt for good measure.

"Marcel!"

Marcel giggled, leaning against the stacks and watching Lesley extract a clear bag containing a sealed record and a small pair of boys' pyjamas.

"Haven't seen you in a while, boo." Marcel remarked. "Busy boy?"

It was casual between them. Casual and wonderfully lewd and at times, quite loud.

Lesley sighed; a long, drawn-out breath.

"Marcel..."

"Uh-oh," Marcel, who fancied himself a student of human nature, tilted his head. "What's on your mind, baby?"

Lesley turned, leaning against the metal rack. "Marcel, I won't be able to see you anymore."

"My, my....are we _seeing_ one another?" he teased.

Lesley looked pained. "What would you call it?"

"Fucking, darling boy. Fucking, here and there."

Lesley shut his eyes.

"Honey, did you come all the way down to the stacks to tell me you're off the market? You could have saved yourself the trouble and texted me. It's...it _was_ a casual thing."

"I know that," Les crossed his arms across is broad chest.

"No baby, you _don't._ You don't do casual."

"Yes, I do."

"Pfft," Marcel chuckled. "Honey, you watered my plants. Casual hookups don't water a boy's plants."

"Maybe they do," Les mumbled.

"Les, you cleaned out my _fridge_. You scrubbed the crisper."

"So?"

"Scrubbed. The. Crisper." Marcel took his arm gently. "You are not built for a fuck here and there. You want a family."

It annoyed Les that the saucy little archiver could read him so well.

Marcel took the folder from Lesley, carefully completing the chain of custody. He began walking back toward the front.

"So," he called over his shoulder, "Is there somebody serious then?"

"No...." Lesley shook his head. Then: "Yes. Yes, there is someone."

"Good, honey. That's the right thing for you."

Les smiled a little. After Leon had broken his heart, he'd found himself having the occasional drink with Marcel Keane, 'Bean' to his colleagues. He'd found the flamboyant young man annoying and incredibly sexy. Bean was a fantastic dancer, a keen observer, and utterly shameless. He'd taken Les to bed, and, if Les was completely honest, had opened his eyes sexually in ways that Leon never had. Marcel was passionate and vocal, wriggling into insane positions, praising and begging Lesley to make him come.

"Bean?" Les accepted the folder from the archiver.

"Yeah, honey?"

"Thank you."

__________

"How y'all?"

A small voice, like a husky little bearcub.

In his basement room, Chris Guthrie lazily opened one golden eye.

Standing before him was a small, bulky figure in a red snowsuit, wearing a rubber Spiderman mask.

"How y'all?" it croaked again.

Chris snickered, opening the other eye.

"What're you doin'? the pudgy Spiderman wanted to know.

"Sleeping, my man."

"Oh."

A thump-thump as Justine Hastings' booted legs clumped down the outside stairs from the second floor kitchen. She rounded the corner, stepping through the back garden door and into Chris's room.

"Oliver! What'd I just tell you?"

"Don' bug Chris."

"And what are you doing?"

"Sayin' hi." As if to prove this to his mother, young Olli Hastings turned back to Chris.

"How y'all?" he repeated.

Justine turned, closing the door and regarding her son.

"How are you?" she corrected.

"Fine, thank you." Olli chirped.

"No, Olli, in Toronto we say, 'how are you?' to somebody."

"Daddy says 'how y'all doin'?"

"Daddy lives in Houston. When you're in Houston, you can say hi like that."

Chris sat up, checking the time. He had to get up, anyway. He had an assignment outline to complete.

Justine reached down, plucking the rubber Spiderman mask from Olli's head. He looked up at his mom.

Relenting, she smiled at him, the same sweet, gap-toothed smile as her twin brother, Lesley. "I give up, Oliver Hastings."

Olli had the roundest, happiest face Chris had ever seen. His father, Jesse, was Samoan, and the little boy had inherited his father's perpetual smile. He had Justine's dark eyes.

Justine crossed Chris's room to the hallway. Chris heard her open the door of the clothes dryer, and fill her plastic basket. She returned with the basket on her hip.

She sat at Chris's desk, dumping the laundry and beginning to fold it.

Chris reached over, plucking socks out of the basket and pairing them.

"I can iron later," he offered.

Justine nodded. She had wanted, desperately, to dislike Chris Guthrie, to find evidence that he was taking advantage of her brother's poorly-concealed affection.

But, the curly-haired young music student had given her no such opportunity. Chris was polite, involved, and much brighter than his lazy, meandering speech might infer.

Justine, who was in and out of the Riverdale house frequently, noticed changes over time. Kitchen cannisters lined up, from largest to smallest, the spice rack put into alphabetical order. The clutter moved off of the stairs. A neat list on the fridge of Chris's financial contributions to the household.

Her brother was in love with Chris. Of this, Justine was certain. And yet, Chris hadn't moved himself into Lesley's third floor bedroom. He'd made his home downstairs, in the room he'd been given.

"Olli's been skyping with his daddy," Justine remarked. "Jesse's just moved to Houston," she added. "We're getting ready for Olli to have a longer visit with his daddy's family." she plucked a small t-shirt off of the desk and folded it. "Right now, it's _y'all_ this and _y'all_ that..."

Olli had squirmed out of his snowsuit and wandered around the perimeter of Chris's room, taking stock of it's familiar contents. He stopped, in front of an open instrument case, which contained a brass trumpet.

He reached out a plump little hand. "What's this?"

"Olli!" Justine said sharply. "We ask first!"

"I just did. What's this?"

Chris crossed his legs, pulling his mass of curls into a hairband. "A trumpet."

"You play trumpet, too?" Justine asked.

"No, like, not at all..." Chris unfolded himself and stood up. "We have an assignment at school. Musical discovery. We had to pick an instrument new to us and...I dunno....it's pretty open-ended." He pulled the trumpet out of it's case, fingering the stops. He handed it to Olli.

"We're supposed to either...research a piece of music, take some lessons, investigate the instrument somehow."

"So you got a trumpet?"

"Yeah," Chris began to snicker. "Kirschy got a fuckin' harp. Oops, sorry Olli."

Olli put the trumpet to his lips and blew. "It doesn't make the right sound."

Chris took the instrument, unscrewing the mouthpiece and handing it to Olli.

"Here. Sit down, dude." he said. Olli did.

"Watch my mouth," Chris pointed to his lips. "Flatten your lips out."

He looked up at Justine. "I think I know what to try for my assignment," he grinned. "Olli, you think we can learn to play this trumpet?"

__________

Les pulled into the back parking lot, in the alley behind his house in Riverdale. Justine's Volkswagen was pulled into the second spot. She would be here to do laundry. He shut off the ignition, looking up at the old house. Lights blazed, warming the winter night. All too often, he'd come home to a dark, empty house.

He pulled his bag out of the back seat of the car, along with a plastic _Toys r Us_ bag containing some Christmas gifts for his nephew, Olli.

He trudged up the stairs to the back kitchen door, pushing it open.

A scene of utter chaos greeted him.

Decades ago, in the winter, Lesley and Justine's granny took to ironing in the kitchen, where it was warmest. She would then hang the freshly-pressed shirts on hangers, on the doorframe leading from the kitchen downstairs to the basement.

Les and Justine had never deviated from this habit, despite the fact that nearly anywhere in the house would have sufficed. Justine stood in the kitchen, braids piled onto her head, ironing.

Olli swooshed through the hung-up shirts from the basement, wearing a red cape, snow boots and brandishing a trumpet. He marched into the dining room, pursing his lips and forcing a squonk out of the trumpet. Kojak, the new addition, followed at Olli's heels, baying whenever Olli made a sick duck-noise with the trumpet. Chris was sitting on the counter, shelling peas and throwing them at Justine. She growled at him each time, jabbing a finger in his direction.

A slow, soft smile spread over Lesley's face. His house was full again.

__________

A few weeks later, Olli was able to squawk out a single note, in the key of G. He beamed at Chris in the kitchen, eyes gleaming. "How y'all like that?"

Les had gotten it in his head that he wanted to wash the sunporch windows, in freezing temperatures. He hung outside of the sunporch, squeegie in hand, dragging it down the pane.

Chris and Kojak sat in the sunporch, watching the rise and fall of the squeegie, their heads bobbing in unison.

Les's phone buzzed on the coffee table. Chris looked at it.

"Les!" he called, "phone!"

"Can you pick it up?" Les's reply was muted through the window.

"It's work!"

"Pick it up, can you?"

Chris picked up the phone and tapped it.

"Hello?"

"Hey sweet cheeks!" a bright voice sang in his ear. Chris frowned. He took the phone away from his ear, looking at the display. _Toronto Police Services Archive Division_ , it read.

"H-Hello?" he looked at Kojak, shrugging.

"How you _been_ , honey?" the voice asked.

"Um, this is Chris. Lesley's outside."

"Oooohhhhh." A pause. "Chris. Your name's Chris?"

"Yeah?"

"This is Marcel."

"Okay. Is there a message?"

"No," said the voice.

"You want me to tell Lesley you called?"

"No, honey. You're okay. Bye now."

The line went dead. Chris sat on the couch, beside Kojak, clutching the phone.

Les came inside, turning and looking critically at the window. "Better?"

Chris made no reply.

Les turned. "Who called?"

"Marcel."

"Anything the matter?"

"No."

Les shrugged out of his jacket, got himself a beer and sat down on the couch.

"Marcel is an archiver. We had a thing. A casual thing. The last time we hooked up was in the summer. I went to see him a few weeks ago...I told him my situation changed somewhat and I have...that I won't be seeing him anymore."

"Oh."

"Anything you want to ask me?"

"I...no. I dunno."

__________

Long after Lesley had put away the window washing equipment, Chris sat staring out of the window. Kojak lost interest, and went to scratch at the kitchen door.

Chris's arms and legs tingled. It was a strange feeling, the idea of Lesley...doing...whatever he did...with someone else. It had, oddly, never occurred to Chris. He knew about Lesley's ex, Leon. He knew that Leon had dialled Les by accident, while he was with another man, and that was how Les had found out that his boyfriend was cheating on him.

Chris had told Les about his own encounters (few, and generally positive) and Les had listened, without comment.

Marcel had called, heard Chris's voice, and then politely withdrawn himself. That was fine. But, there would be other Marcels.

Lesley was gorgeous, brooding, blunt and straightforward. Chris had no doubt that other men would see the appeal.

He pulled his arms into the sleeves of his misshapen mustard sweater, hugging himself. He listed over to one side and lay there on the couch.

If there was one thing that Chris had learned in his short life, it was that no one was about to hand him anything.

He curled up tighter.

__________

The vibes in the house wound slowly down, as night deepened.

Chris had put a store bought meatloaf into the oven and cut up potatoes an onions into a foil packet. He'd plunked these into the oven as well, watching them cook through the glass door.

He'd eaten with Les in the dining room. Several times, encouraged by the smell of the meatloaf, Kojak had come to the table.

"No," Les had said gently. "Go to your mat, please."

The dog had approached Chris. Chris looked at Les.

"Dude, you have to lay on your mat."

Les chuckled. "Chris, you got to _mean_ it."

"Kojak! Go lay on your mat!" With a grumble, Kojak went and lay on his mat.

"See?"

__________

Late that night, when all of the lights had been dimmed, Chris walked upstairs into the kitchen. Kojak, hearing him, trotted down the stairs, sniffing. He smelled Chris, and walked over, tail wagging.

Chris opened the fridge, breaking off a little chunk of meatloaf.

"Here," he whispered.

_Boof._

Taking a shaky breath, Chris climbed the stairs to the third floor, where Lesley's bathroom and bedroom were.

Each step was leaden, and he felt his anxiety mount as he gripped the banister.

 _Why not me?_ he thought. There were a hundred reasons why not him. He was scattered, random, damaged.

But, just for right now, he was going to pretend that he was attractive and worthy and desirable.

_Why not me?_

The idea of Lesley with another man was difficult to accept. The idea of it happening because Chris had stood by and allowed it to happen, was unthinkable.

He looked back down the stairs. Kojak stood at the bottom, head tilted.

_Nobody loves you..._

"That you, boy?"

Chris jumped a foot, clutching the banister.

"It's me."

He went up. Lesley was standing at the sink, wearing a pair of black boxer briefs, bare chested, looking into the mirror. He'd just washed his face, and reached for a towel. He turned, resting his backside against the sink. His dark eyes watched Chris.

Chris' feet felt rooted to the old walnut flooring.

_Why not me?_

He took a step toward the bathroom, then another. His chest rose and fell, golden eyes darkened and dilated. His uncontrollable curls fell around his face.

Lesley watched him, stock-still and patient.

Chris raised a hand, opened it, and placed it onto Lesley's bare chest, over his heart. The skin beneath his fingers was warm and pulsing, the chest hair crinkling softly.

Chris spread his fingers, pressing gently, feeling Lesley's heart beat into his palm.

Despite wanting to flee, despite feeling unloveable and broken and unworthy, Chris left his hand where it was. He raised his head, looking steadily into the dark eyes.

He stayed there for a long moment, willing himself not to retract the silent, precious declaration.

Finally, Lesley spoke. "It's like that, is it?" he asked softly.

Chris swallowed. "It's like that."

Lesley raised a hand slowly, encircling Chris's wrist. Lifted his other hand, brushing Chris's cheek, pushing back the curls.

He bent his head then, carefully, brushing Chris's lips with his own, stroking their fullness with his mouth.

"Come here," Les whispered, pulling Chris against him gently. "Come here..."

Chris relaxed into the length of Lesley's body, parting his lips as the kiss deepened. He rasped his tongue against Lesley's, pulling a feral sound out of Les.

_Why not me._


	8. Feathers and Skin

**DECEMBER 2005**

Les was shovelling damp laundry into the clothes dryer in the basement, when he heard something unfamiliar. Rising to his full height, he smacked his head on a heating duct.

"Ow!" he rubbed at it absently. There it was again. A peal of loud, unbridled laughter.

 Les made his way down the narrow hallway to Chris's basement room. He knocked twice, and turned the knob.

 Chris was sitting on his bed, cross-legged, laptop open in front of him with his phone jammed in his ear. His face was bright with mirth.

"No, just _watch_..." he said into the phone. "Watch, Kirschy...here he goes....one, two three...aaaah!" Chris laughed again, shaking his head and swiping at his eyes.

He looked up then, seeing Les leaning in the doorway. He raised his chin a little, and Les came into the room.

"Kirschy, I gotta go, dude. Yeah. Okay. See you then."

"What?" Les asked.

"Come here," Chris moved over on the bed. "Come and see this..."

There was a small video onscreen. "This is priceless. Okay, so this is my discovery assignment. Remember?"

Les looked blankly at Chris.

"Remember? We had to work with an unfamiliar instrument? Olli and the trumpet?"

Les shut his eyes, as if remembering a piercing headache. "Oh, yeah."

"Okay, look. For part of the assignment, Olli and me took a trumpet lesson, with Professor Lee. Justine recorded this."

Chris tapped the play button. Oliver Hastings sat in an oversize chair, regarding Rocky Joel Lee with fascination. Chris, beside him, looked bemused.

"Okay, so we were able to get Olli to purse his lips and buzz, right?"

Les leaned in closer. Chris had showered; his body wash smelled of fresh cut grass. Lesley's belly began to ache in response.

Onscreen, Rocky Joel Lee had Olli stand, and hold the instrument as he'd been instructed. Lesley watched as his small nephew stood, and, like a tiny orchestra leader, gave a little nod, tapped his toe and counted himself in: "One, two, a-one-two-three..... _squonk!_ "

Chris broke up again..."Look, Les!" he laughed, "Look! Listen to him _count!_ " Chris shook his head. He's so _funny!_ He's obsessed with that trumpet."

"What happened to my quiet life?" Les wanted to know.

Chris turned his head, regarding his housemate. Les shifted, hoping to hide the evidence of his arousal.

Having Chris reciprocate his feelings had not made navigating the relationship any easier. He was still getting to know the complex young musician. Chris was street-tough, fragile, eager, unsure. He was prodigiously talented, perfectionistic.

And right now, his amber eyes shone with laugh tears and his still-damp curls were pulled into a hair elastic, except for what Lesley called the 'getaway curl', the persistent spiral of hair hanging over his left eye. He reached for it, pulling it down and releasing.

"Boing," said Chris.

Chris thought he shut his laptop with the heel of his foot; he wasn't quite sure. All he knew was that he was suddenly lying on his back, Lesley on top of him, full lips nudging his mouth open hungrily.

"Damn," Les swore softly, "damn it..."

He raised himself up, studying Chris's sanguine face. "Okay?" he ran a large hand gently through the damp hair.

"Good," Chris breathed. "It's good, like that..."

"Like?"

Chris arched up, pushing his hips against Les's, his body sparking. "Like that...like...when you be a bit firm..."

Les threaded his fingers through Chris's, pinning one hand over Chris's head, onto the bed. Chris resisted. Les pushed down securely.

"Yeah, Like that," Chris rasped, his world spiralling into colour; purple-red, tasting of musk.

"And if it's _not_ okay, you say," Les placed his mouth against the soft skin of Chris's neck.

"Like a safe word?" Chris whispered.

"My safe word," Les raised his head, frowning seriously, "is 'stop'. 'No' is also good. I hear those things, I stop. We don't hurt each other, understand?"

"Yeah...good...yes..." Chris groaned. The pressure building within his body was making him squirm. And the more he squirmed, the more gentle resistance Lesley applied.

Chris arched off the bed, and Les captured his other hand. "Watch that wrist," Chris gasped.

"Okay," Les let go gently, but pressed his hips down firmly. Chris felt the swollen heat through his pants.

Les kissed him again, slowly, tongue dipping inside of his mouth sensually.

Chris heard a sound; a heady moan which he realized was coming out of his own mouth.

He ran his hand up the inside of Lesley's t-shirt, over the hardness of his stomach, until his fingers encountered a nipple, pebble-hard. He ran his palm over it slowly, drawing a hiss out of Les.

"Baby," Chris heard against his neck, "Christian."

Les rolled sideways, pulling Chris onto his side, their legs tangling. Then, Lesley's hand was between their bodies, palming Chris through his cotton sleep pants.

Chris reached out for Lesley, but Les caught his wrist. His voice had thickened. "Don't you worry about me, just yet," he sucked softly against Chris's neck, tracing his collarbone.

Chris bit his lip. Les palmed him slowly, the heel of his hand grazing the length of his erection, fingers cupping his balls on each downstroke.

Chris unravelled, one arm wrapped around Lesley's back as his body caught fire. Normally restrained, he found himself whimpering, hanging just below his release point.

Les thumbed loose the ties of the sleep pants, fingers sliding inside and encircling Chris's cock. He squeezed gently, stroking upward, thumbing the tender knot of flesh just underneath the glans.

Chris thrashed, trying to settle his body, trying not to come.

"You stay still," Les panted.

Chris trembled. Lesley's fingers flicked the soft ridge at the head of his cock.

"Yes, _papi_."

The fingers stilled. Lesley rubbed his thumb across the tip of Chris's cock, finding a moist trickle there, making tiny circles.

Chris's hips jerked upward.

"You like that, baby?" Lesley didn't have a voice anymore; it was simply a colour, a purple pulse that began in Chris's belly and ended in the strong fingers teasing him.

Les closed his hand delicately around Chris's painfully engorged cock. He began to stroke slowly, from root to tip.

"I'm–"

Chris felt a yank, and his sleep pants were around his thighs, Les had one hand on his belly pressing against his pubic bone and his throbbing cock was being sucked into the wet heat of Lesley's mouth. The full lips tightened around his girth, tongue pressing against the underside, soaking the silky skin.

Chris cried out, body uncoiling and throbbing as he came in waves. Les laved his cock slowly, coaxing pleasure out of him and leaving him liquid-limbed, like a broken doll.

Les lay his head on his boy's belly, inhaling the gorgeous musk of his skin. He felt Chris rest a hand on his head.

They remained there, entangled, as the winter light faded.

__________

For his discovery project, Jean Kirschstein had recorded a free-form soundtrack, for harp, which was background music for a vintage car-chase movie. He'd not only strummed the harp; he'd also used a bow and other objects to pull odd noises from the instrument.

Chris couldn't decide if it was mad or brilliant. Jean received a standing ovation. He didn't seem to care.

He sat in his living room, after class, with Chris. Jean slouched on the couch, feet on the coffee table, picking at a rip in his jeans.

Chris was struggling to remain present; he flashed back to the previous afternoon...Les pinning him down, the thickening of Lesley's voice, being edged and teased...

"What?" his head jerked up.

"School can't teach me anything new." Jean stared emptily as his Jaco Pastorius poster.

Chris snorted. "Seriously?"

"The world's a big place."

"Yeah, and?"

"And...well, I want to see it...take shit in. Before we get to twenty-five and our brains harden."

"That's not exactly what happens..."

"Marco's talking about going to Chile." Jean said finally.

"Really?"

"We should all go." Jean looked at Chris.

Chris said nothing.

"Don't you want to absorb all you can....as a musician?" Jean half-turned to face his friend.

Chris toed the coffee table. He thought about Olli. "Dude. Like....I think I want to teach, bro."

Jean snorted. "Why?" His eyes flicked to Chris. "Sorry. Sorry. I just...I mean, don't we do that when we get old?"

"If I'd had a good teacher when I was little...I dunno...." Chris trailed off.

Jean sat up straighter.

There was a small smile on Chris's face. "Les and me...."

Jean flopped back against the couch. "Aaaaaagh!!"

Chris just nodded, grinning. 

"Aaaaaaagh!"

__________

**APRIL 2014**

Les raised an eyebrow, grinning at his dinner guest, Jean Kirschstein.

"That's what you said?"

Jean chuckled, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Yeah...I think it was more like, 'aaaaarrrrrhhh'."

"How come?"

Jean was rummaging through Sasha's overnight bag, handing her three Beanie Babies that she wanted to put into Maris's hands. "Wait, Sash!" he moved her small head so he could see.

"Simple," he looked back at Les. "You were a grown-up. Like, in every way. You were going to mess up our freedom."

Rocky Joel Lee laughed aloud. "My man," he shook his head. "perspective is everything. Everything...Jean, you a mama's boy, through and through. I bet your mama still cuts the crust off your sandwiches. Of course you wanted your freedom. You wanted to cut the apron strings."

Chris's gentle face was serious. "At nineteen, I'd already had enough chaos to last me a lifetime."

__________

**DECEMBER 2004**

Chris's key rasped in the back kitchen door lock. He didn't hear Kojak's customary bark. Frowning, he let himself in.

"Kojak!" he called. No response. He wandered into the sunporch. Kojak's bed was empty. Had he gotten out?

He went upstairs, looked into the bathroom, and into Lesley's bedroom. His face flushed at the sight of the neatly-made bed.

"Kojak!"

He wandered down to the basement hallway, past the washer and dryer and discovered that he'd left the door to his room open.

"Koj?"

He peered inside.

"Oh, _fuck_ dude!"

The room looked as though a goose had exploded. Kojak lay on the bed, having ripped apart two goosedown pillows, dragged all of Chris's belongings out of his closet, and chewed through his soft-sided guitar case.

Upon seeing Chris, he rose, barking sharply. Beside him on the bed were three small, clear baggies and a tinfoil pouch.

"Woof!"

Chris took a step.

"Arf! Arf!"

Chris pulled out his phone. He dialled.

"Hastings."

"I stopped. I did stop. I just forgot where I'd put it all."

"What's the matter, boy?"

"Kojak got into my room."

"Is he ok?"

"Yeah. He um...he found all my bud. He won't let me in."

Silence.

"I stopped. I don't, now. I'm working my program. I don't need it anymore."

"He's smart."

Chris sat on the floor in the hallway.

"He make a mess?"

Chris found himself smiling, even though his heart was pounding. "Yeah."

"Maybe you should come and sleep in bed with me, now."

Chris held the phone to his ear, feet walking up the doorframe. He waited.

"Boy," Les said softly, "I don't get close to someone for amusement. That's not how I'm built. Do you understand?"

"So..."

"So it's you and me, until one of us says different. You want that, too?"

"I..." Chris dropped his legs off of the wall, crossing them, and hunching over the phone. He stared at the white-and-beige patterned linoleum. It was curling up at the edge, where it reached the wall.

Chris swallowed. "I...will always be this way. How I am..."

"Good," Les said softly. "You be just how you are, but you're mine now, if you want that."

There. It was said.

"Yeah."

"Fine. Good. Now go upstairs and get Kojak's leash. You come back down and give him the command properly, and he'll give you what he found."

__________

Les Hastings came home to find his dog and his housemate asleep, in a mess of goose down, in the basement.

"What did you do?" he growled. Both heads raised. "Arf!" Kojak bounded off the bed.

Lesley let the dog out Chris's garden door, into the yard.

"Did he listen to you?"

Les sat on the bed, sending a few snow white feathers spiralling into the air.

"Uh-huh."

Chris sat up slowly. Feathers stuck hopelessly in his tousled curls.

"He break anything?"

"I dunno."

Les tugged on Chris's arm gently. And Chris crawled into his lap. Les embraced him, breathing in the scent of his skin. "Hmmm," he murmured.

Chris placed his left hand in Lesley's. "Feel," he said quietly. "I have three pins in my wrist."

Les traced Chris's wrist softly.

"One of the pins is out of place, so they say...but I guess I'm used to it, now. Most times it doesn't hurt at all, just if you were to squeeze hard, or if I bash it. The thing is...I can play really  well, as-is. So...uh..I never got it looked at. You know, reset or fixed."

He slid off of Lesley's lap, to sit beside him. "I broke it when I was eight."

A long silence. Chris looked up. Les's dark eyes regarded him, steadily. "I know."

Les placed a hand on Chris's leg, squeezing gently. "I read your file. When you came into the mentoring program."

"You did?"

"I wanted to know more about you. Couldn't understand why you were there."

"What did the file say?"

Les swallowed. "If there was no file...what would you want me to know? If anything at all?"

Chris sighed. He scratched at his hand absently. "My dad's inside. He's locked-up for what he did to my mom. My mom is blind because of my dad. She used to illustrate kids' books. She loves books. And my wrist is broken because of my dad, too. His name is Dixon Guthrie. Is that in the file?"

"Yes."

Chris stood, gazing out of the window to where Kojak snuffled and chomped at the snow.

"What about Garvey Rush? Is that name in the file?"

Les was silent. Chris turned. Lesley's expression was inscrutable.

"You should put that name in your file somewhere. People think I was just little, but I remember _everything_  that happened, when I was eight."

Les rose, walked over and enfolded Chris from behind. The boy was shaking. "Takes time to come to terms with things." He kissed Chris's temple. "How about we go get something to eat? The past is still gonna be there tomorrow, and next week. Makes no difference."

They bundled up agains the cold, and walked through Greektown. Festive blue and white lights were strung across the boulevard, the restaurants and bars abuzz with holiday cheer. The stopped at the dog park, letting Kojak off his leash.

Chris's mood had brightened; he told Les in detail about Jean's great harp experiment. On the way back, Les ducked into a doorway, pulling Chris close. He pushed down Chris's muffler, pressing him against the wall and kissing him with a slow heat that melted his limbs, despite the freezing Toronto night.

__________

After their walk, Chris took the shop-vac downstairs to do battle with the feathers. Kojak had managed to snap a guitar string and chew up one of the tuning keys. Chris decided not to tell Lesley.

He opened the back garden door, shaking feathers out his clothes and then throwing them into his hamper.

When everything was in order, he sat at his desk, twirling around. This garden floor space would make a nice studio, he thought to himself. Students could come over, and use the garden door.

He kicked his basketball, watching it roll across the orange carpeting. He stooped to pick it up. The feel of it in his hands reminded him of Garvey. He took a shot, and the ball swished into the laundry hamper.

Upstairs, all was quiet. Kojak was asleep in the sunporch. The TV was off. In the kitchen, the diswasher's blue operational light winked in the darkness.

Chris checked the back door, the front door, the alarm, and went upstairs to the bathroom.

He stepped out of his boxers and t-shirt, turning on the shower. The hot spray was delicious, soothing and calming him. He soaped his limbs slowly, remembering that he'd been invited to share Lesley's bed. He shivered, reaching down and touching his stiffening cock.

The shower curtain rings squeaked along the steel rail as the curtain opened, and Les joined him under the spray.

"Feathers," Les picked at Chris's hair gently.

Chris closed his eyes. He felt the length of Lesley's torso and chest pressed against his back, skin-on-skin. The contact had a hum...a sound to it. A resonance.

"I can hear your skin," he whispered. He found himself arching his back, bottom pushing against Lesley's groin.

"I think I can hear my damn skin," Les gasped. "This is..it's..."

The hum deepened, nuanced. Purple-red, connective. Chris relaxed, the chaos within his mind quieting, flowing.

He inhaled, exhaled. He wasn't sure he'd ever been this aroused; his lungs filling, diaphragm pushing down against the thick heat in his belly, his ass, his thighs. It was perfect.

Les's hands were soapy; tracing and massaging Chris's shoulders, sliding under his arms to encircle his chest, thumbs grazing his nipples.

He ground his bottom against Les's groin, drawing a growl from Lesley. Les held him still, one slick hand cupping Chris ass, caressing, fingers sliding into the seam between his buttocks.

Chris moaned.

Les's finger slipped inside of him, applying a gentle pressure. "Is that something you like?" Les's mouth was agains the back of his neck.

"Yeah, yes...yes..." 

Les's teeth closed gently where Chris's shoulder joined his neck. "You change your mind about that, you just say," he murmured, and began fingering Chris slowly, opening him gently. Chris braced his forearms against the shower tiles, eyes closed, long, dark lashes clumping together under the spray. His lips parted, breaths deepening into rhythmic moans.

The fingers thrust into him a little deeper, crooking and making him whimper. "It feels...so good...so...aaah..."

"You want me here?" Les's voice had roughened.

"Uh huh..yeah..."

Chris turned then, blinking. Placed his hands on Lesley's chest. Les was chiselled, broad-shouldered, long-legged. Water ran, like rivulets, across his skin, meandering through the dark hair at his groin. His cock was curved, thick and stood at attention.

"Oh..." Chris's heart hammered. His eyes flicked up to Les's face, fingers reaching out to touch his cock, tentatively at first, tracing the uneven, velvety texture. A sound caught in Lesley's throat. Chris knelt, tiny details burning into his brain; the small spiral of Lesley's navel, the dark hair, catching shower spray like jewels, the smooth, twitching head of Les's cock which he tongued, tasting salt.

Les braced himself against the wall, arm straight out above Chris's head, his other hand fisting gently into Chris's wet mop of curls.

Chris turned his face up, wanting to see if Lesley was pleased, wanting to watch as he sucked Lesley into his mouth, fist against his lips, sucking and stroking.

"If you keep going like that..." Les growled, "if you...."

Chris relaxed his throat muscles, taking Lesley's cock further in. He closed his fist around the base of Les's cock, pushing against his pubic bone, fingers rubbing the shaft softly. He pulled his head back, the point of his tongue teasing the soft knot on the underside of Les's cock.

"Chris...."

The lush, light brown eyes watching him steadily, were Lesley's undoing.

"Yes, sir?" Chris whispered

Les's body let go then, and he thrust into the sweet mouth, coming hard and fast.

Chris swallowed, gasped for breath and rested his forehead against Les's taut abdomen in satisfaction. "You didn't say, 'stop'" he pointed out.

__________

It snowed that night; a thin, biting snow that hissed as the wind whipped it against the windows.

In the dark bedroom of the Riverdale house, Chris Guthrie lay face down across Lesley's bed, panting, slick with sweat. The resonant hum buzzed in his bones. He wondered if it was Lesley's energy that he heard, entwining with his own, or if the thrum was just a clever trick of his kaleidoscope mind.

As if to atone for spilling into his boy's mouth, Les had taken Chris to his bed, teasing, sucking, and touching, edging his boy until merely passing his hand over the curve of Chris's backside drew a heated moan from the boy.

He'd dipped his fingers in a smooth lube, painting a snail track down Chris's spine, from the soft divot at the nape of his neck, down his vertibrae and between the rounded cheeks, stopping just short of the little pucker.

He'd pushed open Chris's thighs, using two fingers to tickle Chris's swollen balls, and the soft pad just behind them, causing Chris to raise his bottom into the air. When Lesley eased a hand further between his legs to run a lubed palm up the length of his twitching cock, Chris had begged him, panting.

"You okay?" The deep whisper, behind his ear.

"Fuck me!" Chris gasped.

Les spanked his ass, a jolt of pleasure shooting straight to his cock.

The fingers traced his spine again, slippery and thick between his cheeks, and this time they pushed into the small hole.

Chris's legs jacknifed as he squirmed with pleasure.

He worked his hips, fucking himself on Lesley's fingers, moaning shamelessly.

Then, a deep burn made him twitch, a thick heat inside of his bottom, Lesley's thighs pressing against the back of his own.

He groaned, buttocks flexing, clenching against the slick fullness inside of him.

"It's you," he panted.

"I hope so."

Lesley pushed further inside of Chris, lifting the boy's hips, his cock rubbing inside of Chris's body so that he shuddered and bucked.

"You hurting?"

"Nooooo...."

"Okay..." And Chris found himself pinned, Lesley's teeth claiming the back of his neck, powerful thighs forcing his own wide apart, and Les began to fuck him in earnest, heavy balls slapping against Chris's bottom.

"Mine," Les growled.

Chris's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Breathless, he arched backward, feeling Les's fist close around his aching cock, strong fingers pulling him into oblivion. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Puzzle Pieces

"Auntie Maris," Sasha sat on the floor, thumbing the cover of the book that Maris has just read to her and Nadine, "Do animals know words?"

"Sure, they do."

"Does Kojak know words?"

"Kojak knows more words than some people know," Maris chuckled.

"Can fish hear?" Nadine rests her head against Maris's knee.

"Some can."

"Sometimes," Sasha offered, "I have to call my Daddy _five times_ before he answers me."

"Me, too." Nadine nodded.

"Sasha!" Jean called from the dining room, "It's time for jam biscuits!"

"Biscuits!" Sasha clapped her hands together.

Maris sat still, allowing the sounds of the busy house to wash over her. Chris was in the kitchen with Jean's new lover, Armin. The oven door creaked, and the tantalizing aroma of fresh baking wafted through to the living room.

"Do you make your own jam?" Armin wanted to know.

"I can," Chris replied. "But there's also a great little shop on Weston Road that makes nice jam. I think it's Weston Road."

Maris smiled. _Yes, that's right. The Cannery._ A clanking of dessert plates, the cheery burble of the coffee maker.

The couch dipped then, and she felt the tickle of her son's curls against her face, as he lay his head on her shoulder. She smiled, thin arms going around him, and kissed the forehead.

"Coffee and biscuits are ready, mom."

She kissed him again, squeezing tighter. "And here we be." she said gently.

Sasha and Nadine looked up, from the rug.

"Sometimes," Sasha observed, "children get bigger than their parents."

Nadine considered this, regarding the bulk of her father Rocky Joel, sitting at the table. "And sometimes, they don't."

__________

The summer that Chris was twenty-one and Jean was twenty years olf, Jean had left abruptly. He'd dropped out of Humber with only one year left to go, stashed his belongings in his parents' garage and strapped his fender electric bass onto his motorbike. He'd pulled into the back alley behind Les and Chris's house in Riverdale. Chris had been sitting on the back porch.

Jean had shut off the bike's engine, removed his helmet and sat there.

Chris had made his way down the stairs, his wild hair pulled into a black headscarf.

He'd approached Jean, his heart sinking. Jean's face was still tired and gaunt. His eyes, furtive and restless.

"Dude," Chris shook his head.

"Don't."

"Bro, we only have one year _left._ Fuck."

"I don't care. I can't learn any more from the inside of a classroom, right now."

"But your degree, man."

Jean snorted. Chris sounded like Les. Logical and sensible. BBQ dinners on the deck on Sundays and walking the dog. Jogging  _Jogging...please_. It had thrown off the natural order of things, Chris and Les. Jean had been... _needed to be_...just that little bit more sane than Chris. Jean had been Chris's anchor. His _person_. Now, Lesley was that. Lesley and his house and his dog and his thick runners' thighs.

"I'll finish school when I get back."

"No, you won't man. You'll end up driving a cab or something."

"Not everyone wants to be a teacher in a little room in a house, dude." The words had tumbled out before Jean could stop them.

But Chris had just smiled serenely. "Kirschy, we need you. Marco and me. Don't forget about us."

There it was; it had never taken much to set Jean off. He swallowed, chin trembling, tears coming.

Chris hugged him tight.

"Where you going first?"

Jean sniffed. "New Orleans. Jazz clubs. Creole jazz."

"Huh. I'm jealous."

"Come with me."

"I wish."

"No, you don't." Jean smiled.

Chris pulled back, wriggling out of his brown leather Che Guevara jacket.

"Here, man."

"No! I can't take your jacket! It's like, a part of you, dude."

"Exactly."

__________

Jean had travelled on-and-off for two years; New Orleans, Chicago, New York. He'd returned, showing up on Chris's back doorstep in the pouring rain with an eyebrow piercing, grown-out hair and Frye boots.

He'd smacked a sheaf of pages against Chris's chest, grinning triumphantly.

"Here!" he'd beamed.

Chris had looked down at the pages, and back up at Jean.

"Chris, songs! Songs I've written. Scores. Music. Jazz standards, but with new arrangements. We're gonna play it! All of it!"

Jean had crashed in the basement. He and Chris had jammed for four days straight, until they'd both passed out.

Les had listened from the sunporch, having had little choice in the matter. The music had poured forth, erupted out of his young lover like a thing trapped. It was as if a dam had burst. He came to understand, deep in the middle of his third sleepless night, that Chris needed Jean.

Jean had finally found an apartment; a little post-war pad above a Portuguese BBQ place on College Street.

Chris had come home from Jean's new apartment late one night, bringing two chicken dinners in tinfoil takeout containers.

"Taste this, Papi. This is the best chicken I've ever had."

"Come here."

Chris had looked up, amber eyes questioning.

"Come here, baby."

Chris had sat beside Lesley, who had taken his hand, turned it over carefully, and kissed the calloused, overused fingertips, one by one.

He'd pushed against a finger with his tongue. "Sore?"

Chris winced. "A little. But you know.... _good_ sore."

" _Good_ sore. I get that. And I need to find that now, in my work. I need to find my good sore."

"But, you love what you do."

"I'm detailed to K9 here and there. Done two task force assignments. Patrol work in Rexdale, and Eglinton."

Chris watched Lesley's face.

"It almost fits. But it don't fit, properly."

Chris chuckled. "Like your suits?"

"Behave."

"Or?"

Les slapped a thigh with the flat of his hand.

"Hmmm," Chris smiled, eyes hooded.

"Kirschy and I are putting a jazz group together."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, man," Chris nodded. "We're called Cherry Kirsch."

__________

"C'mon."

_Boof!_

"C'mon. I'm not gonna ask twice." Les tapped Kojak's leash against his leg. "Wanna go for a ride in the car?"

_Boof!_ Kojak bounded down the stairs.

Chris and Jean Kirschstein were out looking at a rehearsal space. They'd found a drummer; a wiry little Irish mouthpiece called Connie Springer.

Les and Kojak had other fish to fry however. Les eased the Buick out of his parking spot and headed north, to Lake Scugog. Burning a hole in his pocket was a letter.

He got to Scugog Marina just after lunchtime. He opened the car door and Kojak jumped out gratefully, nosing in the tall grass beside the water.

Les stretched, locked the car and headed down to the docks.

He was approaching the slip where _Checkmate_ was moored, when he heard a whoop, and Olli Hastings cannon-balled off the back teak deck of the boat.

He frowned. He hadn't expected Olli and Teeny to be here; he'd been hoping to have a quiet word with his Uncle, Chief Inspector Rubio Tait.

He and Kojak walked alongside the boat.

"Hey!" he called.

His uncle lounged in the stern of _Checkmate_ with Justine, who'd been swimming and wore a colourful sarong.

He bent down to kiss his sister, and then his uncle.

"Uncle Les!" Olli called from the water, where he was wrangling a pool noodle. "I'm going to music camp!"

"Music camp!" Les nodded. "That sounds good!" He looked at Justine over his shades.

"Two weeks of peace and quiet," she mouthed.

Olli rolled onto his back, kicking. "Where's Chris?"

"Chris's working."

"Tell Chris that I'm going to music camp."

Les opened the ice cooler on the deck, helping himself to a beer.

"Is Kojak allowed in the water?" Olli wanted to know.

"Yeah." Lesley unhooked the dog, who whined excitedly.

"Kojaaaaak!" called the boy.

__________

Chief Inspector Rubio Tait had intended to fish for smallmouth bass all afternoon, having snuck away while his wife was at an outdoor Tai Chi class.

His tranquil afternoon had been interrupted, first by his niece Justine and her boy, and now by his nephew Lesley, dog in tow.

He wasn't sure why Justine had turned up; probably the lure of the lake on a warm summer day. He had a fairly good idea what had brought Lesley up to Scugog.

"So?" Lesley turned to his twin. "What'd I miss?"

Justine crossed her arms, looking at him squarely. "Talkin' about you. Your ears must've been burning."

"Oh?" Les frowned. Justine glowered back.

Rubio Tait chuckled. "Man, those _faces_! You two think you're so badass. Your mother could out-scowl the pair of you. Made you both look like Christmas angels by comparison."

"Mommy didn't frown," Justine corrected her uncle.

Rubio hooted. "Like hell she didn't! You want to know? Let me tell you, that pretty girl could pull the meanest cuss-face I ever seen. Frightened guys away."

Justine's mouth quirked, she cracked.

"That's better," Rubio said.

"So," Justine tilter her head. "What's up with you, Lee?"

"We're not gonna wait until I've at least had a cold beer?"

"No."

Les took the letter out of his pocket, handing it to his uncle. "I got this."

"What is it?" Justine wanted to know.

"A transfer requisition. A promotion, I guess."

"Really?"

Les turned to his uncle, also his superior, well up the food chain. "You got a copy of this, I assume?"

"What's it say?" Justine leaned forward.

"The task force that just wrapped up. My last assignment. It was run by Nolan Medavoy. He wants to tap me for a robbery homicide unit."

"That's great!" Justine exclaimed.

Les made a long, wheezing sound, like a deflating tire.

Rubio Tait looked up, raising one eyebrow at his tall nephew. "I'll tell you," he said, "I already signed off on this, Lee. It was a no-brainer."

Les snorted, looking at his uncle as though he'd lost his mind. "You did?"

"You're twenty-seven years old, got two task forces under your belt. Medavoy wants to tap you for a downtown homicide unit. This is a good fit, if you want it."

Les toed the blue carpeting in the stern of the boat. Took a pull on his beer.

Justine stood, "I wasn't kidding," she held up a hand at her sibling. "I came here to talk about you. You been a grumpy cuss for months. I don't know what's wrong with you and I was hoping Uncle Rube might know. You and Chris okay?"

"What? Yeah! Yes, of course. Chris's great."

"And you're well? Your health is okay?"

Les glowered.

Her tone softened. "Then what's eating you, Lee?"

Lesley removed his sunglasses, squinting at the sun glancing off of the lake, glittering sequins.

"You know, when Olli does a jigsaw? And he finds a piece. And he's so sure it's right, only it ain't? It won't slide into place. The only way he gets it in is by pounding it, with his fist? And he's sure it's right, and no one can tell him different?"

His relatives listened.

"Well, that's about the size of things. No matter how much I smash around at work, the pieces don't fit right."

Justine bent then, kissing Les on the forehead. He swatted her away. "Get off me, Teeny."

She stepped onto the back deck and dove into the lake.

Les looked at his uncle, Chief Inspector of Police for Toronto West.

"I'd be reporting to Medavoy."

"You impressed Nole on the task force."

Les scrubbed a hand slowly through his manicured beard.

"Yeah...I don't know if me and Lieutenant Medavoy is a fit, sir."

"In what way?"

Les screwed up his face "C'mon. You know him."

His uncle Rubio waited.

"I'm not here to talk smack about a superior," Les grumbled.

_But. Nolan Medavoy made Les cringe. He was slovenly, unkempt. He stuffed his face with donuts and macaroons. The rest was speculation: booze, hookers, suspicious assets._

"Nole is a smart cop," Rubio remarked, watching Olli bop Kojak on the nose with the pool noodle.

"I don't doubt that."

"He's creative. He's a problem-solver. Ain't no accident he was handed a homicide squad."

"But..."

"But what?" Rubio asked patiently. "He's not black enough for you? Not strong enough? Not you?"

Les opened his mouth, and shut it again.

"Son, you don't work for _you._ Your lieutenant doesn't have to be what you are. You're those things.

You can learn alot from Nolan Medavoy. And maybe," Rubio reached into the cooler, pulling out a beer, "maybe this is the puzzle piece that fits nice, no smashing."

Rubio sat back down. "I get it. I get the dog thing. I know you love dogs. Dogs in your blood. Your mom was K9 police, and she was exceptional."

Les's expression softened.

"Prue was good police. All our hearts still break, that she's gone. And Eddy," he laughed. "Eddy Hastings was the only boy had big enough stones to ask your mom out. But son...look. Teeny is a corrections officer. That doesn't mean Olli's headed in that same direction. Olli loves music. I'm worried that if you keep waiting on K9...something meant for you, something else, will pass you by."

Lesley took the letter back from his uncle, thoughtfully.

"Do you remember Mojo?" Rubio asked.

"Yeah," Les smiled. "Mojo was a great partner for mom."

"Did you know once your mom and daddy split up for a week? Your daddy said that damn dog came first, and he wouldn't have it anymore."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh. Eddy slept on my couch for a week. He called Prue every night, though."

"Did the dog really come first?"

Rubio laughed aloud. "What you think?"

Lesley watched his own dog frolicking in the water with his family.

"Yeah. I'll be careful about that."

"Maybe you're not meant for K9," Rubio stood, raising the lid of the BBQ. "Maybe you want to accept this homicide assignment."

He turned toward the water. "Teeny, you want to have some chicken, honey?"

__________

Chris must have been playing with himself, quietly, biting his lip in their bed. As the morning light began to seep though the blinds, he'd crawled on top of Lesley, pliant and slick, and slowly impaled himself on Les's morning erection.

"Aaaah....fuck...."

Les surfaced slowly, not comprehending the tight, hot pleasure at first, wondering if it was a fevered dream.

Chris rocked slowly on top of him, sighing.

"Damn, boy," Les croaked, gritting his teeth. His hands travelled up Chris's thighs, circling around to cup the smooth bottom. His fingers tickled softly, and Chris whimpered. His boy had such satiny skin on his ass, and over the crest of his hip bones. Butter soft.

Les slapped Chris's bottom "What on earth you doing?"

"I want to....make sure you have a good day... _detective._.." Chris sighed.

"Oh god," Les's eyes flicked to the clock. "Fuck..." He was anxious, nervous. Today was his first day reporting to Nolan Medavoy in homicide. "Chris...I gotta..."

"Please," his boy wriggled, palms planted on Lesley's chest, "Please, sir..."

"You're trying to kill me."

Les closed his hand around the hopeful erection bopping against his belly. He found it as slick as the boy's entrance. He stroked, slowly.

"Bad boy," he admonished lovingly.

Chris let out a soft sob.

"Such a bad boy, doing this to me on my first day..." He squeezed, thumbing the head of Chris's lubed cock. He spanked the bouncing bottom. "You bad on purpose?"

"Yeah," Chris moaned. "Yes, Papi."

"You're going to get it later, you know that," Les stroked upward, fingers twisting, fingernail flicking against the little ridge of flesh.

"I know..." The prospect of being taken in hand later caused Chris to shiver, and then to buck against Les. "Oh, god, I'm bad..."

His cock jerked, his orgasm soaking Lesley's fist and his chest.

Les's hips pistoned, unable to stop, slapping against Chris's ass as he came.

__________

Lieutenant Nolan Medavoy perched on one of the squad room desks like a fat, pasty Buddah, regaling a few colleagues with an off-colour story about strippers, nipple tassles and how these were actually adhered to skin. He stopped midway to shove a macaroon into his mouth, following it with a swill of coffee.

Les Hastings had clocked in a half-hour early, feeling oddly exposed out-of-uniform. He wore grey slacks, a crisp white shirt and a rumpled blazer. Attached to his belt was the gold detective shield that he'd earned. He thumbed it, knowing that he hadn't earned shit yet.

The new squad consisted of eight detectives, pulled from various police divisions. Les hadn't been surprised to learn that his academy classmate, Sandra Chang, was among those selected. Chang and Hastings were like oil and water; they had abraded one another since day one. Les was smart enough to realize that Chang was both decisive and attentive to detail. She'd probably be his commanding officer one of these days.

Lieutenant Medavoy spied Hastings, mid-story. "Ey," he called out, "Copzilla. Welcome."

Hastings glowered. _Copzilla._

A short, balding Asian man that Lesley didn't recognize stepped forward. "Vincent Yip," he held a hand out, "Vice."

Les shook the extended hand.

"You're the K9 guy?" Yip asked.

"Yup," Les replied.

"Well, better crack on," Medavoy grunted. He led the group into the squad room. There were five detectives present; Hastings, Chang, Yip and two more.

"We got two still in the field," Medavoy commented. "They'll be here in a week or so. Chang, you ride with Yip. Hastings, you're with me until your partner turns up."

Les groaned inwardly. "Yes, sir."

Les followed the squat Lieutenant out to his car. The interior was littered with fast food wrappers and empty coffee cups. An air freshener in the shape of a naked girl swung from the rear-view mirror.

Medavoy got in, plunking a case file into Les Hastings' lap. "Here," he said. "You spend any time with gang unit in your travels?"

Les shook his head. "Nope."

"Well," Medavoy shoved a macaroon into his mouth, coconut crumbs clinging to the corners of his little bow mouth, "the short version is this. Weston Road area, we've got friction between the Tens and the Greeks. Been going on for years. Usual bullshit. Drugs, territory. Last night, this guy was fished out of the Humber River." Medavoy flicked the page over. "Spiro Kanakaredes."

Les studied the photo.

Medavoy held out the bag of macaroons. "Here."

"No, thanks."

"Let me guess," Medavoy snorted, "Broiled chicken, steamed vegetables, kale?" He waggled the bag, "have a fuckin' cookie."

Les accepted a chocolate macaroon. It melted in his mouth.

"Looking at a few guys that have a beef with the Greeks. Here," Medavoy jabbed at the page, "Thomas Guthrie. Street name is T-Bone. His cousin is Dixon Guthrie, who's doing a stretch up at Lindsay for aggravated assault. Blinded his ex-wife and broke the wrist of his eight-year-old son when the kid tried to protect her. Real sweetheart."

Les swallowed, the macaroon tasting like dust as he forced it down.

He studied the pictures of Chris's father, and cousin. He took a breath, trying to process the information.

"I know the incident," he told his Lieutenant.

"Oh yeah?"

__________

Chris heard the key scrape in the front door of the Riverdale house, which was odd. Why hadn't Les come in through the back kitchen door? He padded into the hallway, barefoot.

Les stood in the front hall, with another man. He was overweight, with thinning hair and paunchy cheeks.

Chris stopped, eyes flicking from Lesley, to the other man.

"Christian," the man began. "I'm Detective Medavoy."

Chris shook his head, as if to clear a buzzing. His world had tilted, yellow-green, like an unwatered lawn.

"Chris, do you remember me?"

Chris looked at Lesley, not understanding why, or how, Lesley had gone to work and returned home with this police detective. Les nodded at him.

_Chris remembered the Spiderman sleeping bag. Garvey had rolled him in the sleeping bag and picked him up and taken him to the hospital. He remembered how, when he tried to move his hand, it hurt and he had screamed._

He brought his hands together, scratching nervously at the small nub, where the pin in his wrist was.

"Yes," he said. "I remember you."

His throat ached, and his skin crawled. Despite the fact that he was now an adult, despite having Lesley's arms to hold him, and Kojak to protect him...the pain and the fear were still there, just a scratch below the surface.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	10. The Green Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains an incident of non-sexual domestic violence. The episode involves Maris and Chris. One of the core themes of 'Details' has to do with this mother and son emerging as survivors of domestic abuse, and to show how they have dealt with various challenges across time. As always, the comfort and safety of readers is of greatest importance; please proceed according to your own comfort level.

Lesley's phone buzzed.

"Hastings."

"Well?"

Les stood up from the dinner table, wandering into the sunporch. "You need me?"

"No." Les's partner, Tariq Nasir, was working at Sharq Tanq. The second show of the evening would be starting shortly. Tariq, undercover as 'Toyeh', a stunning drag queen and cabaret host, would be seating guests, chatting to regulars. Sparkling. Tariq's ability to inhabit an undercover persona left Lesley dumbfounded at times.

"These heels," Tariq purred conspiratorially, "are killing me, honey."

"The red ones?"

"Uh-huh. So. Are you an engaged man?"

"No."

Tariq's voice dropped an octave. "What the hell? Are you kidding me, Pud? It's nearly nine-thirty. What's the hold-up?"

Silence.

"Aw, shit. Chris didn't say, 'no', did he?"

"No."

"You mean no, _no_...or no, _yes_?"

"I mean, nothing's been asked."

"Wait...." Tariq said.

Lesley wandered back into the living room, through the kitchen, and to the basement steps. Chris looked up.

"I'm goin' down to get some ice cream for the girls." Lesley went down the steps, past the washer and dryer, and entered Chris's music studio.

"I'm in the alleyway, now." Tariq came back on the phone.

"Anything doing?" Les asked.

"Bits and pieces. Chatter. You know."

No response.

"So what's the deal?"

Les looked around at the orderly studio. What was once Chris's crib, with faded orange carpeting and a narrow single bed, was now painted a bright white, with birch linoleum flooring and sound-proofed walls. There was an upright piano, music stands and racks of instruments. In one corner was Chris's office. On the walls were charts for his students, sporting colourful lines of stickers they'd earned.

There was a video cam, which allowed Chris to record lessons, for students and their parents to review later on. Les looked up at the camera.

"I'm just gettin' ice cream," he told it.

On the wall, articles and photos. _Cherry Kirsch_ , on the cover of _Bandstand_ , and _Now Magazine_. An article in _Eye_ , about Chris's activism. an interview on CBC radio, about living with synesthesia, and anxiety.

"The deal," Les spoke into the phone, "is, what if I don't deserve this young man? He's special. That's the deal."

"Ugh," Tariq snorted. "Get over yourself. What've you been doing for the past ten years then? Jesus, Pud. I've been working undercover since I was twenty-three. I've got a wife that's passed me in the street at times, and not even recognized me. We have two very busy little boys, and a new baby. Just..."

Les hears the wail of a siren.

"...just...asking for someone's hand is the easy bit. After that, that's when you put the work in. You're good at that. Just put the work in, as you've always done."

"Chris's nearly thirty, now. He was a scared kid with a sick mom and nowhere to go, when I met him. Now...people stop him in the street, to talk. People go to the jazz festival, to see him play. Folks want to hear him speak on things. Chris's somebody special."

"Pud. Pud, there is no 'special' or 'not special'. Moonie and me, we show up. That's all it is. Just show up in your fucking life together. Just be there."

"Yeah," Les leaned against the wall.

"Can I go in now? My lady balls are freezing off."

"Yeah."

The line went dead. Absently, Les reached up, fingering the pucker beneath his armpit, where a bullet had knotted the skin.

That, there. There was the real problem.

"I can't...I can't just...go to work one day, and never come home to you," he whispered.

__________

****SUMMER 2009, 55 DIVISION** **

Chris sat in a metal chair, in a small room at 55 Division. The room contained piles of file boxes, chipped cabinets, a broken fan.

Chris took a futile breath, trying to still his mind. It was a tumbling spill; grey and black splinters of thought. Rooms like this felt unsafe.

The door opened, and Lieutenant Medavoy shambled in. He plunked a pile of folders onto the table, along with a stack of pads, pencils, a recording device and a package of marshmallow biscuits.

"Sorry," Medavoy wheezed, taking a seat opposite Chris. "We just moved in. Still redecorating."

Chris watched the detective warily.

"Cookie?"

"No, I'm cool."

"Toasted coconut," Medavoy encouraged.

Chris shook his head.

He waited while Nolan Medavoy shoved a cookie into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. He took a swallow of coffee and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"So here's the thing, Chris. I need help."

Chris waited.

"I've inherited about nine boxes of shit," Medavoy gestured to the pile behind Chris.

"Those files," Medavoy leaned forward on his elbows, "concern Weston Road. They go back fifteen, sixteen years or so."

Chris pulled his bottom lip into his mouth.

"Last week, Spiro Kanakaredes was shot in a hit-and-run outside of his bakery. You know who that is?"

"Yes."

"During that attack, a little girl was shot as well."

The young man's eyes fixed on Medavoy levelly.

"Sorry to hear. How old is she?" Chris asked.

"She was eight years old."

"Was?"

"Was."

Chris's arms went around his ribcage. He glanced at the one-way mirror.

"Chris," Medavoy redirected his attention. "Chris, here's the thing. I've been trying for two years to get Detective Hastings onto my squad. I need him on this. Now, if you want to help us, you need to give your statement to me, not to Hastings. That way, he can take this assignment without...what would you call it...a conflict of interest. You understand me?"

Chris looked at the mirror.

Medavoy placed a picture onto the table. A little girl, wearing a white blouse, with a red ribbon, for her picture day at school. "This was the little girl. Nina."

Chris swallowed. He was shaking. He felt blindsided by this entire situation. Trapped.

"I don't want my mom bothered."

"I understand that."

"What exactly do we need to talk about?"

"I'm going to get you to walk me through a few things, to see if my notes line up with what you say."

Medavoy flicked on the recording device.

"July seventeenth, two-thousand and nine. Lieutenant Nolan Medavoy. Chris, can you state your name?"

"No. I want to see Lesley."

Medavoy shut off the device. He crooked his finger at the window.

The door opened, and Les entered. He had a pen shoved behind his ear.

He sat beside Chris.

Chris looked up. "I want to help you..."

"Okay."

"I don't know why this isn't easier. I'm a grown man."

"Can you remember back that far?"

Chris nodded. "You know I can. You know I remember...details."

"What about I call Dr. Bossard? Would you like him to come down?"

"I'm worried about my mom."

Chris placed his hand flat on the table, staring down at the three silver rings he wore. He'd randomly painted his thumbnails orange. His hand was large. As large as Lesley's. A tea saucer with fingers. Brown and strong. It was a man's hand, not a child's. Beneath the skin, the two pins holding his wrist in alignment, jutted slightly. He made a slow fist the size of a softball. Opened his hand again. He thought about how small Olli's hands were, when Chris placed his chubby little fingers onto the piano keyboard. Small and helpless.

Chris nodded then. "It's okay, _papi_. You go. I got this."

Les placed his arm around Chris's back, fingers rubbing the nape of his neck, beneath the curly hair. "Okay?"

"Yeah."

Lesley exited. Medavoy turned on the recorder.

"Can you state your name?"

"Christian Vasquez Guthrie."

"Age?"

"Twenty-three."

"Chris, can you tell me where you lived in July of 1994?"

"Yes. 633 Weston Road, in an apartment above a garage, with my mom."

"How old were you at this time?"

"Between five and eight."

"And did you know the owner of that apartment and that garage?"

"Yes."

"Can you state the owner's name?"

"Garvey Rush."

Chris shut his eyes. There was Garvey, larger than life, a huge man with a voice like a mountain, a gold tooth and hands that could crush a grapefruit. To Chris, Garvey had radiated a colour vibe, deep emerald green. He was the green man.

__________

**JUNE 1991**

He heard footsteps overhead. The scrape of a chair. The hiss of water running. The squeak of a window opening. A flurry of bumps - small feet running.

Fine, then. She had moved in the evening before, as planned. She was here now, in the apartment upstairs.

Garvey Rush leaned against the bay door of his garage on Weston Road. For early summer, it was unseasonably humid. He unzipped his grey coverall, to catch any stray breezes.

Weston Road was a vibrant neighbourhood, at the confluence of Little Jamaica and Greektown. The section of Weston Road where Garvey's garage stood had three-story brown brick storefronts with apartments above, connected by rooftop walkways and metal fire escapes.

The road was pockmarked with ruts; the sidewalks still original post-war slabs boasting the fossilized initials of mischievous kids from decades gone by. The neighbourhood had yet to be gentrified; there were no retro baristas, no handmade soap boutiques. Instead, there were laundromats, seedy bars, a fruit market, an off-track betting shop. The Greek bakery across the street. Garvey's garage on the corner.

The brick alleys were tagged with graffiti at shoulder-height, and lower down, the meandering chalk-lines of children.

Garvey Rush had lived here all his life. He'd attended Weston Road High School, in the seventies. So had Maris Vasquez.

Maris had played girls' basketball in high school. Garvey remembered her long, dark ponytail. He'd played basketball as well, until he'd been suspended.

He'd known Maris and her sister for nearly twenty years.

Now, she was upstairs, with her little boy, living above his garage. Away from Dixon Guthrie. And Garvey could keep an eye on things.

He encountered her the following day, coming down the front stairs with a bundle-buggy full of laundry.

She exited her apartment door, which was beside the garage bay.

"Hi, Marisol," Garvey rumbled, crossing his thick arms across his chest and grinning happily.

She wore a baseball jersey, jeanskirt and sandals. She had silver hoops in her ears and the same long, curled ponytail.

She smiled brightly. "Garvey, you know it's not 'Marisol' - just plain 'Maris'!"

Oh, she was anything but plain. And there, peering around her hip, a tousled, curly head and two curious, honey-brown eyes, fringed with his mother's thick lashes.

"Who's this?" Garvey asked.

Maris turned to the small boy. "Well?" she said gently to the child, "Who're you?"

The little boy stared up at the giant, pressing his head against Maris's side.

"Chris" he mouthed. No sound came out.

"Chris," Maris repeated.

"Hi, Chris," Garvey nodded. "How old are you?"

The moppet vanished behind his mother. After a long moment, a small hand emerged, with five fingers held aloft.

"You're five. That nice. I'm a lot older than five."

Garvey watched Maris and Chris proceed down the street, toward the laundromat. The soft, curly head turned around twice, to peer at him. Garvey scanned the street. No sign of any cars that didn't belong there.

__________

Garvey Rush's garage was on a corner. Behind the garage was a small, cement yard with a patch of browned grass. Beyond that, a sizeable ashpalt drive where cars were parked; old cars that Garvey intended to junk; newer cars that he intended to sell; other cars which arrived late at night and vanished into the garage, only to emerge in pieces. Garvey did what he needed to do, to pay the bills. He did work for the neighbourhood folk. He did work for the Greeks. He did some business with the _Tens_ \- Dixon Guthrie's people.

One morning, Garvey Rush stepped into the back yard for a coffee and some air. He wandered to the chain link fence, which separated the yard from the car-park. Feeling an odd tingling on the back of his neck, he turned around.

The little moppet, Chris, sat on the black metal stairs, watching him.

As soon as Garvey turned, the small boy scrambled up the stairs and vanished onto the roof and into the apartment.

Garvey snickered.

The following day, as he and Clutch sat outside sharing a submarine sandwich, he glanced up again. The small face with the huge eyes watched him curiously.

Garvey held up five fingers. That was all. The boy remained on the metal stairs until his mother called him inside.

When Saturday came, Garvey Rush pulled a little plastic table out of the junk heap at the side of the yard, and a plastic chair, once red, now faded to orange. Onto the table, he placed a juice box and a box of animal crackers.

The small person on the stairs watched this with keen interest.

When Garvey did not look up at the stairs, Chris disappeared and then returned, tugging Maris by the hand. He pointed at the table in the yard, whispering something in her ear. 

"Morning, Garvey," Maris called.

"Hi, Marisol."

She tilted her head. "Chris wants to know if that's for him."

"Sure," Garvey nodded.

Chris crept down the stairs, looking up at his mother. He approached the table, touching it with two fingers.He slid onto the plastic chair, leaned forward and captured the straw of the juice box between his lips.

Maris jabbed a finger at him. "You," she said sternly, "you do not leave that yard, except to come back up. Understand?"

"Yes, _mami_."

"What did I just say?"

"You do not leave that yard except to come back up. Understand?"

Maris nodded. "You sure this is okay?" she asked Garvey.

"Fine," Garvey waved a hand at her.

Chris's feet did not touch the ground. His small toes turned in, sneakers touching.

__________

Maris illustrated children's books. She worked for the school board as an administrator, and she'd begun having Chris tested for sensory issues before kindergarten. Her toddler son had begun reacting to sensory input in a different manner than other children. The sniffing had occurred first. Chris had developed a fascination with certain scents. He was exceptionally bright, but often confused the concepts of 'taste' and 'smell'. He said that he liked the way gasoline 'tasted'.

He sang all of the time; a sweet sound. He rocked habitually, to soothe himself. He had an uncanny memory. He created artwork which, in his opinion was representational, but had an added layer of input: dogs with blue tails, trees with orange zig-zag trunks. He associated colours with people.

"Look mama, here comes the green man."

As Maris learned more about synesthesia, she was better able to help Chris navigate his world, without invalidating his senses. In time, he would be able to translate his experiences, to sensory-normal individuals.

"I like it downstairs," he said quietly. "It tastes like gasoline."

"I smell the gasoline with my nose," Maris had replied. "It's okay that it's different for you."

__________

One morning, Garvey brought out a huge plastic jar and set it onto Chris's table in the yard.

"You want to do some work today?"

Chris nodded.

"How about you sort these out for me. This," Garvey held up a screw, "is a screw. You put it in this pan. This, now this is a bolt. They go in the other pan. You think you can do that?"

"Screws here, bolts there," Chris summarized efficiently.

Garvey nodded, and went into the garage.

When he looked out ten minutes later, Dixon Guthrie was standing in the yard with the child.

Garvey went outside, slowly.

"Dix," he nodded.

On the table in front of Chris was a new gameboy device. "I came to see my son," Dixon Guthrie faced Garvey.

"This is my daddy," Chris swept an oblivious hand toward the man in the yard. He kept separating screws and bolts.

"I know," Garvey said quietly. "Chris, you go on inside, Clutch will give you a popsicle."

Chris looked up at his daddy, with his blue sunglasses and gold rings.

"Now," Garvey pointed to the garage. Chris wandered inside.

"Dix, you can't be here," Garvey said quietly.

Dixon Guthrie removed his shades. "How'm I supposed to do business with you?"

Garvey took a step forward. "You want to talk, I'll come meet you. One hundred yards, brother. You know the deal. You can't be where she is. You got to stay away."

Dixon Guthrie's eyes flashed up to the apartment window.

"You need something, you send T-Bone over. You can't come in here. Don't jam yourself up." Garvey said reasonably.

"I just want to talk to her."

"Not now Dixon," the larger man moved forward. "Not just yet."

After a long moment, Dixon Guthrie turned and walked out of the yard, leaving the shiny new gameboy gleaming on the table.

Garvey Rush put an electronic lock on the front and back door of Maris and Chris's apartment. He installed an alarm system.

Maris, feeling safe for the first time on ages, painted the apartment a light sky blue. Chris thought the colour tasted just fine.

__________

**SUMMER 2009, 55 DIVISION**

"Christian, have you had any recent contact with Dixon Guthrie?"

Chris took a sip of the tea that Nolan Medavoy had gotten him. "Yes. I got a visiting order from the prison, three weeks ago."

"And did you visit Dixon Guthrie?"

"No," Chris said quietly. "I have nothing to say to him."

"Did you tell anyone about this?"

"Les. And my friend Kirschy."

"Who is Kirschy?"

"Jean Kirschstein. He and I have a jazz group. He's a musician."

"Have you had any contact with Thomas 'T-Bone' Guthrie?"

Chris hesitated. He hadn't told Lesley.

"I....uh....yes. I got a message on my phone. I saw that the call was coming from my cousin's Nolah's house. I didn't pick up. It was T-Bone. He wanted to come and see me."

"And did you return the call?"

"No."

"Okay Chris, and just for the record, your home address is 1715 Riverdale Avenue in Toronto?"

"Yes."

"And do you live alone? 

"No. I live there with Lesley Hastings..."

"You are a couple."

"Yes."

"And how long have you lived at that address?"

"Four years."

"Chris, why did you not return Thomas Guthrie's call?"

Chris put the paper cup carefully onto the metal table. He looked down, curls falling forward.

"Chris?"

"You guys let him out," Chris shook his head, "That's on you, not on me."

__________

**WESTON ROAD, 1994**

Garvey Rush stood six-feet-five-inches tall. It had become customary to see him out on Weston Road, with the little Guthrie boy in tow.

Chris had made two friends, and they rode their bicycles in the alleyways and lit cherry bombs and chalked the brick walls like little toughs.

One afternoon, Chris tugged on Garvey's hand in front of the barbershop.

"Can I get a haircut?"

"A haircut?" Garvey looked down. "How you goin' to pay for a haircut? You got any money?"

"Seven dollars and nine cents."

"You can't get a haircut. Your _mami_ will kill me."

"I'm hot."

"If I cut those curls off, she'll cut my balls off."

Chris considered this possibility. "I will talk to her."

"Well, that's a relief," Garvey remarked.

"I have seven dollars and nine cents and I'm eight. I'm _eight_. I want my head buzzed."

Maris had spotted them, from the window, making their way back up Weston Road. She had yelped, out of shock. Her heart had begun hammering, for reasons unknown. As the pair got closer, she saw the satisfied smirk on Chris's face. Her son had a lovely, round head, carefully shaved down to a half-inch of brown fuzz. He didn't have a baby-face anymore; his light eyes were serious and watchful. He was street smart. Garvey had taught him well.

Thus, when Chris came through the door, she was able to tell him, while holding back tears, how handsome he looked.

Chris soon began to visit Garvey with less frequency, preferring the company of his young pals. He'd begun to play basketball at the courts, taking bumps and giving them right back. When he saw Garvey Rush, he'd give a small nod. Garvey would nod back. Man to man.

__________

**SUMMER 2009, 55 DIVISION**

Nolan Medavoy flipped open the yellowed notebook. There was a stain on the page; chocolate ding-dong probably. He sighed.

"Chris, do you this man?" he pushed a snapshot across the table.

Chris frowned. "Yeah. That's Spiro Kanakaredes. He owns the Greek Bakery on Weston Road."

"Okay. How about this person?"

Chris took a deep breath. "That's Jimmy Kanakaredes. He was Spiro's dad."

"Do you remember the last time you saw Jimmy Kanakaredes?"

Chris looked up. He looked at Medavoy. He looked at the mirrored glass.

He sat still for a long moment. He thought about Humber. About Jean, and Marco. About his pint-sized students and Kojak and Justine and Olli.

"What happened," he asked at length, "to Garvey Rush? Is Garvey dead?"

It was Medavoy's turn to pause, thumbing through his notes. "No."

__________

**WESTON ROAD, 1994**

Chris had trouble sleeping, sometimes. He'd creep out onto the fire escape, listening to the sounds of the city.

Once, a red car had pulled into Garvey's yard, very late at night. Garvey and Clutch had come out, opened the bay doors and taken the car inside. The bay door had closed. Chris had heard the zip and whine of equipment, and a bunch of crates had come out, instead of a car. Chris had melted into the shadows, quiet as a mouse.

A couple of times, there had been arguments in the street. Men shouting in Greek, or patois. Garvey had stood in the doorway of his yard, watching silently, like a sentry.

On the Saturday night in question, Chris had snuck out onto the fire escape. He watched, silent as a cat, the comings and goings. Garvey's yard was quiet. Behind the yard was the alley that backed onto the Greek bakery.

A light was on in the bakery, and Chris heard raised voices. He sat still. The shouts got louder, and the back door of the bakery opened. Chris's eyes widened; his daddy and T-Bone came out of the bakery, with Jimmy Kanakaredes.

Jimmy was yelling something in Greek. Then, he spat at Chris's daddy.

Dixon Guthrie punched Jimmy then; he fell to the ground, and Dixon and T-Bone began to kick him.

Chris squeaked.

Dixon Guthrie's head shot up. He looked directly at the fire escape. The beating stopped.

Jimmy Kanakaredes took the opportunity to stumble to his feet, lunge into his car and peel away down the street.

"Chris!" Dixon Guthrie had called.

The little boy had scrambled up the fire escape, heart beating like a rabbit's. He'd run into the apartment and slammed the door. He'd huddled underneath his bed, shaking, until daylight.

__________

The following day, the news headlines carried the story that Jimmy Kanakaredes had driven several blocks from his bakery on Crann Avenue, turned left onto Weston Road and smashed into a fire hydrant. He'd been autopsied, and it had been discovered that he'd been beaten, and that his lung had collapsed as a result, causing the fatal crash.

The scene of the crash was taped off, and some firemen were working to repair the hydrant. Chris watched out of the front window of the apartment. Garvey had come up the stairs.

"Chris, you want to go see the firemen with me?" Garvey had asked.

"No."

Chris had gone into the bathroom and thrown up in the toilet. Maris had put him to bed. She wanted to go to the drugstore to get him some children's gravol, but he'd burst into tears, begging her not to leave.

"I'll go," Garvey had offered.

Maris had put her cool hand onto Chris's forehead. "He's not too hot," she frowned. Then: "Okay. If you don't mind. It's the peach-coloured box."

She'd gotten Chris some flat gingerale, and started making jam biscuits in the kitchen.

Chris rocked back and forth trying to soothe himself, curled beneath his Spiderman sleeping bag on the couch.

He couldn't close his eyes; when he did, he saw his daddy's angry face, looking across the lot toward the fire escape, right at him. T-Bone had looked at him, too.

He heard Garvey come back then, to the back door.

No, not Garvey. Another voice.

"Let me see him, Maris."

"Get out of here!"

"I just want to talk to him. Chris! Where are you, boy?"

"Get out!"

Then, a bump. Maris had screamed for help.

Chris had run into the kitchen. Maris was on the floor, Dixon standing over her, with his back to Chris. Chris had grabbed the heavy walnut rolling pin, swinging it at Dixon's back. It had contacted making a sound like a hollow melon.

Dixon had turned, seized Chris's wrist and smashed it against the counter, twice, three times, four times.

Chris had slumped to the floor.

Then, a huge shape had darkened the doorway. Garvey Rush. Dixon Guthrie had looked up, leapt over Chris, and fled down the front stairs, straight into police.

The kitchen had swarmed with people then; a woman in a blue uniform, bending over his mom, who would not wake up. Garvey had bundled him into his sleeping bag, picking him up off the floor.

"Mami!" Chris had reached out of Garvey's arms, one small hand dangling at a grotesque angle.

__________

**SUMMER 2009, 55 DIVISION**

He was empty. There was no corner of his soul that Nolan Medavoy hasn't scraped raw. The police now knew everything that he had to tell them.

Chris sat in the interview room, shaking.

His throat ached, thick with tears.

"My...um. My mom was struck in the head, three times. When she fell, she hit the base f her skull on the corner of the oven drawer. It damaged the part of her brain that controls eyesight. For a while, she could see blurry shapes. Now, all she can see are shadows. And she has seizures. When I was around eighteen, they were frequent. Debilitating. Now, things are better."

"Chris, you said that you remember me." Medavoy prodded.

Chris nodded.

"I saw you at the hospital. I was in a little room, with Garvey. He was holding me. My arm was numb. You...you gave me a biscuit, I think."

"And do you remember saying anything to me?"

_I saw._

"Yes," Chris whispered. "I told you that I saw what had happened. To Jimmy Kanakaredes. After you left, Garvey told me that he would take care of things. And that I wasn't to worry. And then...you came back, and took Garvey away."

Medavoy reached over, shutting off the recorder.

___________

They kept Chris's phone. They let him sit at a desk, with a landline.

Shaking, he dialled his mom's number at Glenwood.

"Hello?" her bright, cheery voice.

"Mami."

She knew, in the instantaneous way that mothers know, that her child was hurting. "Baby, what's the matter?"

"I'm okay. Are you okay?"

"Of course I am," she soothed. "I'm working on 'The Runaway Mouse'. What's the matter, honey? Is Lesley okay?"

"Yeah." Chris tried to steel his voice, and failed. "I just _worry_ about you sometimes."

"Good grief," she said gently. "I'm fine. I was fine five minutes ago, and I will be fine tomorrow. Everything is okay."

Chris wept.

"Sweetheart, you want to come and see me?"

He did, but he knew he couldn't.

"N-No. I'm good mom. I'll be seeing Les very soon." 

"Sweetheart, I'm here if you need me."

"'Kay. Bye, mom."

He'd disconnected the phone then, looking up.

Les stood in the doorway.

Tears spilled over Chris's thick lashes. "I can't fix this by myself," he said hoarsely, "I need you to help fix this."

__________

Outside of Glenwood Centre, a battered pickup truck with Detroit license plates parked beneath a maple tree, at one corner of the property. From this vantage point, both the front and side entrances of Glenwood Centre were visible.

Inside of the pickup truck sat a very tall man with a gold tooth and a greying beard. His eyes watched the doors intently.

The summer sun was setting. He opened the collar of his shirt, to catch any stray breezes.

"No one," he whispered to himself. "No one's goin' to get in this time."

 

 


	11. The Taste of Gasoline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Kai.

**SEPTEMBER 2009**

They hadn't spoken in four days, except for basic, domestic exchanges.

In the cool September pre-dawn, Les Hastings crept home after an overnight shift. Chris, exhausted, didn't stir when Les entered the bedroom.

Les sighed. He shrugged out of his windbreaker, unclipped his shoulder holster and disengaged the clip from his service weapon. He touched his thumb to the lock of the steel gun-box, and placed the gun inside.

He rubbed a thumb and forefinger of one hand against his closed eyelids, to ease the burn. He padded into the shower, turned it on and stood under the steam, braced against the wall.

The Spiro Kanakaredes case was four weeks old; four gruelling weeks, in which Chris had been questioned by police three times, and, promises waived, Maris Guthrie had been interviewed as well.

She'd spoken to Chris on the phone, trying to soothe his distress.

_"Mom, I told them to leave you alone."_

_"It's okay, sweetheart. That's not for us to decide."_

_"But what did they want?"_

_"They wanted to know about people I knew a very long time ago. Before you were born. People your daddy knew."_

_A pause._

_"Mami?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"Do you know where Garvey is?"_

_"No, honey."_

Lesley's twin sister Justine had framed the situation for him: "This's a test, Lee. Are you a trained detective, or just an angry man with a gun?"

Les eased a soapy hand across his aching shoulders. On his left shoulder blade, a tattoo. It was a triskele; an ancient cycle. Each of it's three swirls contained a word, scrolled around the outside: _humility. temperance. judgement_. These three qualities, to Lesley's mind, were essential in order to protect and serve. His complexion was too dark for vibrant colour; burning the words into his skin had been a promise, of sorts.

"They hate you," Lieutenant Medavoy had told him, conversationally, as they'd sat in an unmarked car across from Eglinton Flats park. This had been T-Bone Guthrie's haunt. They surveilled the basketball courts, the playground, the homeless figures bundled onto park benches.

"They hate you. They fear you. The only question in their mind is: will you fuck up and shoot someone by accident, or will you shoot someone intentionally?"

Lesley had listened quietly.

"You need broad shoulders and a thick skin to survive. You need to carry that weight. Knowing that you are a decent human being that will be despised on a daily basis. It's not temporary."

Medavoy had taken a coin out of his pocket, flicked it and it had landed on Lesley's breakfast sausage wrapper.

"That token," Medavoy had jabbed a finger, "Twelve years sober. I'm not a drunk. Everything else you've heard about me, is true. I have fingers in every pie in the city. I have my own way of getting things done. This unit will do what it needs to do."

Les had nodded, looking out of the windshield, dark eyes pensive.

This was a test. He could not imagine another case crossing his desk, ever, that would require him to lie outright to Chris. It was highly unlikely that his work would ever intercede with Chris's life again. And yet, here they were, a scant few months after he'd earned his detective's shield.

He'd told Chris a lie; a big, fat, utter lie. All he could hope for was that Medavoy's long game played out as anticipated.

Lesley shut off the shower, scrubbed himself with a towel and walked back into the bedroom. The morning light slanting through the blinds striped his lover in orange. Chris had thrown off the blanket and lay on his front, one leg bent. Les's eyes followed the sinewy line of his spine, his rounded bottom.

Carefully, he slid onto the bed, beside Chris. He leaned over, peering at Chris's sleeping face. The dark lashes swept down, meeting purple shadows, like bruises, beneath his eyes. Chris's fingers twitched in sleep, as though he was playing guitar. He looked so worn out. Guilt filled Lesley's throat, thick and bitter.

He leaned over, placing his lips softly against Chris's temple, the curls tickling his face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Chris stirred, shivered, clawing the blanket up and over himself. He rolled over, eyes opening slowly, sleepy gold.

Lesley ran a hand through the mop of curls, placing soft kisses along the hairline.

"Christian. I'm sorry, baby."

"I know."

The arms went around his neck, pliant and trusting.

__________

**FIVE DAYS EARLIER**

Riverdale was a long way from Weston Road, Chris told himself. Before Lesley, Chris had never had any reason to be in Riverdale, a neighbourhood on the city's east side. He had no family here, no ties. No one should come looking for him here. All the same, he stood in the backyard of the Riverdale house, running his thumb over the brass sign that he'd screwed into the brick, beneath the cheerful awning that led into his garden-level studio.

 _'Chris Guthrie'_ , it read. _'Guitar, Piano, Voice'._

_The only good snitch is a dead snitch._

People self-policed. That was how the world worked. Or did it? His white neighbours had called the police when their home had been burglarized.

"Oh, thank God," the neighbour had exclaimed when she'd opened her front door to admit the uniformed officers standing there.

He, Kirschy and Marco had perfected the art of avoiding cops at music festivals. Cops were a nuisance.

One day, when he and his mom had been walking back from the laundromat on Weston Road, they'd seen a black teen, who was being detained by police.

Maris had stopped abruptly. The bundle-buggy's wheels had stopped squeaking.

"Good morning," she'd said, loudly. The teenager had looked at her. She'd taken out her phone.

Chris had stood still, watching.

"Aren't we going home, Mami?"

"Not yet," Maris had replied. "We'll go home when they let the boy go home."

She'd stood there, holding her phone, witnessing the event, until the boy was let go.

And yet. Chris had seen Lesley work. Lesley was the same man, in-and-out of uniform. Nolan Medavoy had treated him fairly, always took his calls, and had told Chris as much as he could about the movements of his recently parolled cousin, T-Bone.

T-Bone had called Chris's phone seven times. Each time, Chris's heart had begun to hammer, and he couldn't catch his breath. He'd never answered. The messages were always similar: _where you at, can we meet, your daddy wants to see you._ Maybe T-Bone would come looking for him.

Lesley was often away overnight, working with his new unit. Chris found himself checking the front and back doors, the windows, the yard and the alarm with a repetition that fuelled his anxiety, like gasoline on a fire. He felt safer on the couch in the sunporch than upstairs in the bedroom. When Lesley was away, he'd taken to falling asleep there, with Kojak and a baseball bat.

At first, Kojak had lain on the floor in front of the couch. Eventually, Chris had let him up onto the couch, pulling him close. That way, he could sleep.

__________

Chris started out of sleep.

He felt Kojak's growl before he heard it, rumbling against his side. A growl, rising into the dog's throat, and then, three sharp barks.

Kojak rose, barking loudly.

"Fuck," Chris hissed. He was shaking so much that he was nearly unable to step into his jeans in the dark, one leg and then the other.

"Fuck...fuck...Good dog. Good dog."

Trembling, he grabbed Kojak's leash from the hook in the kitchen, snapping it onto his collar and looping it around his wrist.

Kojak's ears pricked alertly. The leash meant they'd be going outside.

Lesley had instructed him: if there is trouble, leash the dog. He'll better understand what you need him to do, and you can control him.

Chris heard a sound then, a human voice.

He picked up the baseball bat.

Kojak barked again, but stayed obediently to heel, close by Chris's leg. Chris peered out the front door, hearing the voice again. There was a dark shape on the front lawn.

Another cry. Chris flicked on the porch light, frowning in confusion, and then let out a sigh. _Jesus._

He opened the door, speaking softly to Kojak. The dog sat.

They went outside.

On the lawn was Chris's sixteen-year-old neighbour, Riann. She was bent over her best friend, who was busy being sick in the bushes.

Riann looked up, tears tracking through her mascara.

"Fuck," she sobbed. "Chris! Chris, Megan's sick... _God, Chris,_ we're in so much _shit!_ " she sobbed.

Chris glanced around. Except for the inebriated girls, the street appeared to be deserted. No cars that didn't belong there.

"C'mon," he said gently. "Come in the house."

He sat the girls on the bench in the front hall, and went to get a plastic bucket for Megan. He wrapped a blanket around her shoulders.

Riann was still crying, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. "Fuck," she ran an agitated hand through her hair.

"Here," Chris handed her a glass of water. "drink it."

He squatted down, examining Megan, who smelled of peach schnapps and barf. "What did you guys take, Riann?"

"We drank," Riann sniffled.

"Just booze?"

She looked at Chris, who was her piano teacher, chin trembling. "We smoked a joint."

"....and got the spins. I get it," Chris stood up.  "I've gotta get you guys home," Chris told the girls. "I have to call your dad, dude."

"No," Riann's face crumpled.

"Yeah," Chris said softly. "I have to. It's either that, or we wait until Lesley gets home."

"No!" Riann's eyes widened in alarm. "No! Okay, call my dad...call my dad..."

Megan stirred then, leaning her head back against the wall, eyes opening blearily.

"Chris," she breathed. "Hey look, Ri. It's Chris..."

"I know," Riann snapped soberly.

"Chris," Megan's head lolled against Riann's shoulder. "Fuck, Chris, you're _soooo_ beautiful."

"Ssssh!" Riann hissed, mortified.

"I love you, Chris...Ri, isn't Chris gorgeous? Why're we here?"

Chris was on the phone to Patrick, Riann's dad. He hung up, turning to the girls.

"So yeah, he's not a happy bunny. But dude, I'm telling you...this seems like a big deal now, but it'll blow over. Trust me."

"Thanks..." Riann looked up.

"I love you...." Megan breathed. "I love you five-ever, Chris...."

Patrick's Volvo had pulled up to the curb, and Chris helped the girls into the back seat.

"Sorry about this," Patrick's pasty face was grim.

"It's not a problem," Chris reached into the car. "We've all been there."

"Thanks again," Patrick nodded, and drove away.

Chris exhaled. He walked back into the house, locking the door behind him. He walked into the sunporch. He shut off the light, looking out into the back garden.

Silhouetted against the back gate was a large figure, unmoving, in the dark.

Adrenalin coursing through him, Chris grabbed the baseball bat, took hold of Kojak's leash and stalked out into the yard.

"You want something?" he snarled into the darkness. "Do you?"

He smashed the bat loudly against the trash bins. Kojak strained at the lead, ears pricked. He barked.

Chris strode into the back alley. It was deserted.

He smacked the back fence with the bat. "Come on!" he yelled.

Lights went on in the house next door.

Chris went back into his own yard. He sat in a lawnchair with his bat and his dog, and waited for morning.

__________

The day after Chris's encounter with his teenage neighbour, Lesley had had a day off. They'd taken Kojak for a walk in the Don Valley, and had visited the K9 unit. The weather had been crisp, the sky a stainless blue.

They'd both been quiet, pinch-faced and tired. That evening, they'd gotten Thai food and curled up on the couch in the sunporch to watch a movie, stumbling to bed at three in the morning.

The next day, Kojak had waited in the kitchen for his breakfast. Seven-thirty became eight; eight became nine. He'd finally lost patience, picked up his steel dog bowl in his mouth and ambled upstairs to the bedroom.

The bowl had hit the hardwood floor with a loud clang.

It had taken Les mere seconds to bolt upright, fully alert, his Glock service revolver pulled out of the nightstand, cocked and aimed at the sound.

Chris had sat upright, then lunged out of bed, eyes horrified and chest heaving.

Kojak had made a strange sound, lowering his chest to the floor, head tilted.

"Lesley!" Chris had yelled.

Les had exhaled, lowering the weapon. "Fucking _Christ._ "

"You nearly shot the fucking dog!" Chris had shouted. "Fuck!" His eyes flashed furiously from the gun, to Kojak.

"It goes in the safe!" He flailed his arm toward the lock-box. "Why isn't it in the safe?"

Les had no answer that would suffice. He'd come home the previous night to find an angry, rattled young man sitting in the backyard in a lawn chair, gripping an aluminium baseball bat. Someone, Chris told him, was lurking around the house.

Chris bent then, throwing his arms around the dog, murmuring to him. Kojak, in an attempt to reestablish priorities, pawed at his food dish and whined.

Chris shoved his legs into his track pants, pulled on a hoodie, and grabbed his messenger bag.

"We're going," he said tersely, without looking at Les. "We're going to rehearsal. Fuck. _Fuck this_ , Lesley."

Les lay back, his belly full of ice, staring at the ceiling.

_Humility. Judgement. Temperance._

_Fail, fail, fail._

He shut his eyes.

__________

It had taken four days. He'd tried to speak to Chris, but his lover wasn't ready to talk. He said he'd done enough talking to last ten lifetimes.

Now, in their bed, his boy finally softened.

Les pulled Chris close, kissing him softly. "Please, baby..." he'd whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."

Chris had turned, arms sliding around Les's neck.

"I'm sorry, too."

Lips met, softly. "Me too," Les did not understand how a tired man could be as hungry as he was, for this boy.

__________

Lieutenant Nolan Medavoy had eyes and ears all over the city. It had been one of his informants that had led to the arrest of the shooter in the Spiro Kanakaredes case. The shooter was affiliated with the West Eglinton Crew, a rival gang of the Tens.

The shooter was not Thomas "T-Bone" Guthrie.

Medavoy had reminded his unit that, fifteen years prior, Spiro's father Jimmy Kanakaredes had been stomped to death outside of his bakery in front of a frightened eight-year-old boy. It was a cold case he intended to close, and he began to weave his web.

__________

Chris walked. His body sang and murmured, sore from Lesley's passionate apology. He walked west, along Carlton Street, past Maple Leaf Gardens. He stopped at Fran's for a coffee, holding the paper cup in his fingerless gloves.

He'd lost track of the ball of thread the police were trying to untangle. A legacy of violence, tying the Greeks to the Tens, the gang that his dad and T-Bone ran with. Evidence that a rival gang, the West Eglinton Crew was involved.

Les sat, oftentimes, in the sunporch, folders in front of him. He'd read, write. And then, he'd stare off into space as though piecing together a holographic puzzle that only he could see. Chris would slouch in the large, padded armchair, strumming. He played, he improvised, he noodled. Sometimes, Les would snap out of his reverie, pull out his phone, and make a call. He'd pace, between the sunporch and the kitchen, talking.

Chris walked, crossing Yonge Street, the spine of Toronto. Here, Carleton turned into College Street. He jumped onto a streetcar, taking it as far as Bathurst St. He smiled. This neighbourhood reminded him of his carefree Humber days, of Kirschy and Marco.

He arrived at Jean's apartment, above the Charred Squirrel. The bottom door was open, so he let himself in. He went upstairs, popping his head around the doorframe and looked into the kitchen. The apartment smelled tantalizingly of bacon, an aroma which Chris felt in his fingertips, and it made him smile.

Marco was sitting at the kitchen table, his laptop open in front of him. Jean stood behind him, looking over his shoulder at the screen. Neither boy looked up. Jean's hand was on Marco's shoulder; that in itself was not unusual; rather, it was Jean's thumb that transfixed Chris. It rubbed slowly, almost sensually, up and down the back of Marco's neck.

The tiny gesture, like the flap of a butterfly's wings precipitating a monsoon, rocked Chris's world.

_"Whoa."_

Both heads shot up. Jean removed his hand from Marco's shoulder, too casually.

Chris stared.

"Hey," Marco smiled brightly.

Chris blinked. His face flushed. He pulled his head back around the doorframe. Shook his head to clear it.

When he walked back into the kitchen, Jean had his back to him, filling the sink with soapy water.

Marco pushed a chair away from the table with his foot. "Sit down, man."

"I'm good," Chris said evenly, eyes not leaving Jean's back. He was trying to work out if their world had just been broken to bits.

"Hey," Jean turned around, resting his butt against the counter. "What's up?"

"Well," Chris leaned against the doorframe. "I wanted to tell you..."

Jean was looking at Marco, not at him.

"Yeah?"

"I wanted to say, I met with Connie. Irish Connie. I like him a lot, dude. He can sight-read music and he has a really subtle touch on the kit. We ran through the set-list. I say, yes. Let's have him on drums."

"Awesome!" Jean nodded.

"He's a bit of a loose cannon, though," Chris amended. "Like...he can't get into any more fights at weddings. Cherry Kirsch can't fight with people. This is a jazz group, not thrash metal."

Jean laughed, easing the tension somewhat.

"I tried to call you last weekend," Chris ventured.

"Yeah....we were...uh...at the cottage. No cel reception."

"We....?"

Marco pulled his lips into a tight line, frowning at Jean.

"Yeah...we uh, we figured you would be busy, with how things are...so...."

Chris swallowed. "We? Meaning...you and Marco?"

Neither of his friends answered him.

"Marco, are you still okay if I borrow the car for a bit?" Chris asked.

"Of course," Marco rose, almost apologetically. "Keys..."

Chris accepted the car keys. He stood there, awkwardly. When no offer of companionship was forthcoming, Chris stepped into the hall.

"Later," he said, without looking back. A lonely melancholy washed over him as he descended the stairs, feeling shut out and miserable.

Marco had a blue cavalier, with one white door. Chris unlocked it, easing into the driver's seat. His eyes scanned the interior. _What was he looking for, condom wrappers?_

 _This isn't happening. His friends aren't fucking. Yes, they are._ He sighed.

He started the car, pulled out of the parking spot and headed northwest.

__________

A fall drizzle, cold and small, coated Weston Road. One of Marco's windshield wipers was bent, and kept hitting it's counterpart. Chris peered through the uneven streaks. Weston Road was still full of bumps and potholes.

He turned down Crann Avenue, stopping in front of the bakery. It was closed. A sign, written in felt-tipped marker, was taped to the inside of the glass door. _'Temporary Closed'_ , it read.

He drove slowly, around the block and turned left. He was now on Jasper Avenue, facing Weston Road. Garvey's corner garage would be coming up, on his left. He pulled over, not ready to see it yet. The rain thrummed on the hood of the car. The discordant wipers clashed into each other.

Chris shut off the car. He picked up his phone, thumbing through it. _Mom. Lesley. Justine & Olli. Kirschy. Marco. Professor Lee. Dr. Bossard._ He paused, and dialled.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mami."

"How's my son today?" her voice was warm, bright and it's safety brought Chris close to tears.

"Fine," he took a breath. "Mom, I'm down on Weston Road."

"Are you?" her tone was gentle, almost conversational. "Do you remember the laundromat?"

"Yeah."

"Do you remember driving your Hot Wheels cars around the tops of all the washing machines?"

A small smile. "Oh, yeah!"

"Is the fruit market still there?" Maris asked.

"I don't know. I haven't gone up our block yet."

"Honey," she said gently. "He's not there."

"I know," Chris swallowed tears. "but I just want to see, mom."

"Remember," she paused, "remember that you and I have some good memories there, too."

"I'm sorry....."

"You've got nothing to be sorry for. And I don't, either. We're all done being pushed around, Chris. We're done with that."

Chris winced as the wipers collided again. "Mom, did you ever hear from him again? Like...do you have any idea where he is?"

"No sweetheart, I'm sorry. You have to remember, I lost some spots in my own memory, too. I was in a bad way until you were about ten. Then we did just fine living with your Auntie. My seizures began just before you started Humber, didn't they? I can't remember some things now. But...I haven't had a seizure in a long time, have I?"

"No."

"So, there. And I'm writing, again. Try and see the whole picture, Christian."

"I love you, Mami."

"You too, sweetheart. Call me later."

Chris hung up, took a breath, and started the car. It rolled up the street. There, the alley. The back cement lot, with a few cars parked in it. The property was vacant. The garage bay doors were lowered, locked and the windows covered with fading yellow newspaper. The backyard gate was closed, the steel-link fence chained. Chris got out of the car, walking up to the fence.

It was still here; the _taste_ of gasoline. He walked, putting out a hand to vibrate against the chain-links as he walked. The yard was overgrown, grass and weeds pushing up through the cracked cement. There were piles of junk; car parts, scrap rebar. In a corner, looking tiny and forlorn in the rain, was his little table. It barely came up to his knee, now. Beside the table, a basketball. It was nearly new; doubtless kicked or thrown into the yard accidentally. Garvey had taught Chris how to play street ball.

He glanced up at the black metal fire escape, where he'd crouched, like a little night-owl. Across the alleyway was the back of the bakery. The alley was narrower than he remembered, the fire escape lower.

He recalled Jimmy Kanakaredes. A thickset man with hairy wrists. He'd worn an expensive gold watch, and his wrist-hairs used to puff up on either side of it.

He walked around the building and stood in front of the garage. The bay door frames had been painted safety-orange, now chipped and peeling. He'd forgotten about the orange doorways. There was the door that led up to their apartment.

 His mom had been right; Garvey Rush was gone.

__________

Chris walked down the street. It was close to dinner time. His stomach rumbled. People rushed here and there, hurrying home, picking up children. Men lounged outside of the betting parlours. Folk stood on street corners, alone and unacknowledged, holding out a cardboard box or a hat for spare change.

Four blocks from the garage was St. Dinian's Church. In the fading light of the rainy evening, the stained-glass windows shone radiantly, like jewels. Chris stopped. He approached the church, opened the door and crept inside.

The interior glowed; warm polished wood. Near the altar was gathered a choir, in street-clothes, practicing.

Unnoticed, Chris slid into a pew near the back. The choirmaster called the small group to order, and the organist began to play. They sang. Chris relaxed, slumping against the bench, and closed his eyes.

The choir sang two songs, and then there was a pause. The choirmaster spoke to the members, the organ began softly, and then Chris heard the most pure note he'd ever heard; a single, female voice.

His eyes flew open. She stood at the front of the group; a trim, black woman. She had a long, graceful neck, short hair and chandelier earrings. She held up a hand as she sang.

Chris gaped. She sang, _Hallelujah_. The pure tone, silver-blue, captivated Chris. He sat bolt upright, listening. As he listened, tears rolled unheeded down his cheeks. It was so beautiful.

"I can't..." muttered to himself. "I gotta..."

He wiped his face, pulled off his hood, and stood up. The practice was wrapping up. The soloist was placing her music neatly into a folio, and gathering up an umbrella.

"Excuse me," he stepped forward.

The singer looked up. So did someone nearby; a slender man with an Afro.

"Hello," she nodded her head.

"Hey," Chris breathed. "you have an incredible voice."

She smiled. "Thank you."

"I'm...my name is Chris. Guthrie. Chris Guthrie. I'm a music teacher, and I have a jazz ensemble."

"Chris Guthrie..." she frowned, as though she remembered the name. "Do you ever play at Brighton?"

"Yeah," he nodded enthusiastically.

"I know you," she held out a hand. "My name is Lydia," she had an accent, British maybe. "Lydia Adandwale."

Chris shook her hand.

"This is my husband, Gary."

"Gazzer," the thin man shook Chris's hand as well. "I heard your interview on CBC."

"So uh...any chance you both have time for a quick coffee?" Chris asked.

__________

In another coffee shop, far away from Weston Road, in east Scarborough, Les Hastings slid into a booth opposite another man.

Neither spoke.

A server came by, and Les asked for green tea. His companion asked for another coffee.

"Where's Medavoy?" the man asked finally.

"Stocking up on cheesecake." Les Hastings replied flatly, leaned back against the vinyl banquette, measuring the man in front of him. "I thought we best have a chat."

"That right?" He was an older man, taller even than Lesley, his hair shot with silver. A fretwork of blue tattoos covered his forearms.

"You can't come around my house, anymore."

The man eyed him. Lesley knew that the man was taking stock of him, as well. Few people could unnerve Les; this man was such a person.

"You can't come around Riverdale. He's seen you. He knows someone's watching him. You've scared him."

The man's face was downcast. "That wasn't my intention."

"Let's just get this case wrapped up. Then....well, done is done."

The man ran a hand over his balding head. Looked out of the window, sadly.

Les frowned.

"Look," he offered abruptly, "Here..."

He passed a picture across the table. It was one of his favourites. Chris, in the sunroom, the low winter light catching in his amber eyes, guitar on his lap. Laughing, probably at Jean Kirschstein.

The long fingers reached out, pulling the photo slowly across the melamine table. A bittersweet smile bloomed across the weathered face.

"He's a music teacher," Les ventured awkwardly. "I...we...we have a dog. A German shepherd. Kojak."

"Kojak," the man chortled. "That's funny. You're too young to know about Kojak."

"I like the classics."

The man picked up the picture. "Look at you," he said softly, "all growed up."

He reached into his jacket, retrieving his wallet and pulling out a worn, dog-eared photo of his own. A skinny, defiant little boy with a buzzed head. He put the picture on the table.

"He's eight, here."

Les bent over the picture, riveted. The same sweet, tough face. He was so small.

The man picked up both pictures.

"Thank you."

Les stood up, shrugging into his windbreaker. "We good? You keep your distance for now. Everyone's too jumpy. I nearly blew my dog's damn head off last week."

"Les Hastings," the man looked up at him. "Lesley, what kind of police officer are you?"

Les looked directly into the man's eyes, having recently figured out the answer. "The kind I can live with," he replied.

"Tell me," the man held his gaze, "you got a temper, son?"

"No," Les responded firmly. "Not in the way you mean. No I don't, sir."

Garvey Rush folded his arms across his chest and sat back, nodding.

"You know," he raised an eyebrow at the young detective that shared Chris's bed, "there was only one right answer to that question."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	12. Sock Thief

**SUMMER 2009**

_'Boof!'_

"Ssssh."

_'Woof!'_

"Quiet," Lesley hissed in the pre-dawn dark of the kitchen. "Nobody's up yet." He'd just arrived home after an overnight shift.

Kojak tilted his head. _You're up._

"Yeah, not for long," Lesley shrugged out of his windbreaker, toed off his shoes and tried to climb the stairs to the third floor of the Riverdale house as quietly as he could.

He unholstered his weapon, popped the clip and thumbed open the safe.

"S'okay," a soft murmur from the bed.

Les secured his service weapon, closed the safe and pulled his shirt over his head. He strode over to the front window, peering out into the street. At the corner, the newspaper-box was being filled with the morning edition.

He climbed into bed, savouring the sweet warmth, and wrapped himself around his boy.

He placed his cheek against the hollow between Chris's shoulder blades, and drifted off.

He was jolted out of sleep some hours later, music blaring into the bedroom through the open window.

"What the fu-" he turned, morning light stabbing half-closed eyes.

 

_It's been seven hours and fifteen days,_

_Since you took your love away...._

 

"You kidding me..."

 

_I go out every night and sleep all day,_

_Since you took your love away...._

 

The plaintive warblings of Jean Kirschstein, accompanied by guitar. Then, the incredibly off-key voice of Marco Bodt:

 

_Since you been gone I can do whatever I want,_

_I can see whomever I choose_

_I can eat my dinner in a fancy restauraaaaaunt,_

_But nothing, no nothing can take away these blues..._

 

Les nuzzled into the curls at Chris's nape.

"How I look in orange?" he growled.

"Mmmmm?"

Les reached beneath the covers, slapping his backside. "How I look in orange?" he repeated, "because that's the colour I'll be wearing after I murder Jean Kirschstein."

"Huh?" Chris sat up, blinking, utterly confused. He'd been dreaming about Marco's horrible singing voice.

 

_Cause nothing compares, nothing compares to yooooooooooou!_

 

"Oh, shit..." Chris slid off the bed, peeking out of the window.

They stood on the lawn. Jean strummed, Marco held a piece of paper and they were butchering _Sinead O'Conner_ lustily.

They both tried to hold stricken faces. Jean cracked first, grinning impishly up at his wounded friend.

 

_Nothing compares...to youuuuuuuu!_

 

Marco looked pained, trying to sing, frowning with the intensity.

 

_It's been so lonely without you here,_

_Like a bird with out a song..._

 

To embellish these lyrics, Marco flapped his arms like wings.

Chris tried unsuccessfully to scowl; his face cracked into a hopeless grin.

He held up a hand, "Dude, _fuck!_ Okay!"

He turned back to Lesley's still form.

"Stay here, _Papi,_ " he sighed.

"Really?" Lesley groused sarcastically, "'Cause I was gonna make Jean Kirschstein some nice buttered toast..."

Chris went downstairs, where he was greeted enthusiastically by Kojak, who pawed at the front door.

He unlocked it, and stuck his head out. "Go around back," he jerked his head.

 

They sat on the back steps, watching Kojak root around in the bushes.

Marco and Jean had brought coffee and Portuguese tarts from _Charred Squirrel_. The three friends sat in silence, slurping coffee as the neighbourhood stirred itself.

Chris broke the companionable silence.

"I don't care what you do," he said quietly. "That's your deal, not my deal...I just...when people in my life pull away from me, like they're gonna disappear, I'm not good at that."

"We're sorry, man."

"Yeah, so sorry, if we made you feel shitty. Or excluded you."

Jean stretched his legs out. "I guess I didn't really think you'd feel so _bad_...you know, you have this domestic life now...it's like you were the first one of us to grow up, you know?"

Chris swallowed, staring straight ahead, at the back fence. "That doesn't mean I stopped needing you," he whispered thickly.

On either side of him, Jean and Marco scrunched a little closer, arms going around his shoulders.

"Let us make it up to you," Marco urged. "Seriously. How can we fix it?"

Chris was quiet for a long while.

"Well," he said finally, "there is something you can help me with....."

__________

Humber College music professor Rocky Joel Lee sat in his car, in his driveway, in front of the house he shared with his wife, Simone and precocious ten-year-old, Alicia.

He sat, staring at the front porch; at Simone's hanging plants and the porch swing. He exhaled. Looked at his own knuckles on the steering wheel.

It was summer, late afternoon. Cicadas buzzed in the trees. The Lees lived in Davisville, a modest, mid-Toronto neighbourhood. The tantalizing aroma from a neighbour's BBQ wafted in through Rocky Joel's open car window.

Presently, The front screen door banged and Alicia came out. She was wearing black jeans that had a long row of slashes up each leg, and a turquoise hoodie.

She approached the car, and peered into the driver's window.

"Mommy wants to know if you're coming inside."

"Hi, baby."

"Are you coming in?"

"I think you have a hole in your pants. Or twelve."

Alicia Lee rolled her eyes. " _Whatever_ , Daddy."

She inspected her father for a moment, and then turned and marched back into the house.

"Ten going on thirty," Rocky Joel sighed.

As he sat there, the Masterson's dog trotted across his lawn. Alan Masterson called to the dog, waving an apologetic hand in Rocky Joel's direction. "Sorry, Rock!"

Rocky waved back. He still didn't move.

Alicia came outside again, holding a bowl with a spoon stuck in it and a bottle of Red Stripe. Like a punky little car-hop, she approached the driver's door again and handed the food in to Rocky.

"Slow-bake chicken stew," she said.

Rocky Joel looked at the beer in her small hand.

"Can I have a sip, Daddy?"

"Give me that!" Rocky took the bottle from his daughter.

Alicia crossed her arms, rolled her eyes and went back into the house.

The meal caused a lump to rise in Rocky Joel's throat. _Guilt with guilt-sauce._

Then, Simone appeared on the porch. She wore a tank dress and sandals, her long braids pulled into a loose bundle at her neck.

She had a bowl and a beverage as well. She walked down the steps, opened the passenger door and sat beside her husband. Evidently, the conversation he was postponing, was coming to him.

"Eat," she ordered gently.

"Simone..."

She closed her eyes.

"I hope we can have a discussion..."

"Just out with it."

"I put in my sabbatical papers today," Rocky Joel began carefully. "I want to take a year off from teaching full-time. I can stay home with Alicia. Take care of the house for you. Only...."

"Only?"

"Only I want to join a jazz group. Jean and Chris's new project."

Simone raised her beer, taking a sip.

"Simone...these boys are different. Special."

"You wanted to kill the pair of them."

"Yes," Rocky nodded, smiling. "Many, many times. But they are in my life for a reason, they are great young musicians and they're forming a group. They don't have a horn player, or a sax player and together we can do something really special. They have a British vocalist, she is fantastic. And an Irish boy on drums that can sight-read."

Simone's voice was tighter than she wanted it to be. "We talked about travelling a little, on your sabbatical."

"I know. I'm asking if you will consider postponing that. If this project takes off, I'd have flexibility. More time off."

"Joel," she turned to regard him, "what about our other plans? What about a baby?"

He chuckled, tension melting. She didn't love the idea, but he could tell she'd reconciled herself to it, probably long before this particular summer evening.

"It's alot easier for me to make a baby if I'm at home here with you," he pointed out.

She thought for a long moment. "Fine. But Joel, you don't gig every night. Not like it was when we were younger."

"Agreed. The boys want to call themselves 'Cherry Kirsch'."

"Simone?"

"What?"

"I love you, baby."

__________

Nolan Medavoy lay on the bed, in his sparse Scarborough apartment. Overhead, a ceiling fan whirled lazily, without sufficient force to dislodge a single fly, suspended in a spider web, that circled like a tiny patron on a carnival ride.

Medavoy's chest rose and fell, a post-coital calm stilling his mind.

She'd risen from the bed, gone into the bathroom and emerged, wearing a short robe, pale blue silk.

She padded into his kitchen. Plugged in the kettle.

Nolan watched her make tea, and then stroll over to the large window, where the vertical blinds snapped and clacked in the breeze. The bright light caught her face; careworn and lined beneath a brass-blond fall of hair. Her nipples pressed like beer nuts against the silk.

"Mmmm," Medavoy made an appreciative sound.

"Go again?" she offered.

This earned her a good-humoured laugh. "I haven't been able to go _again_ since flip-phones, Rachel."

With some reluctance, he sat up, scratching his belly.

His guest went into the kitchen and returned with a tray.

"What the fuck is this?"

"It's an Asian chicken salad, Nolan."

He reached out, placing a hand on her thigh. "What do I do with it?"

"Don't be an asshole, Nole."

She rose, shucked the robe and began to dress carefully.

Medavoy peered suspiciously at the salad.

He reached into the nightstand for his wallet and pulled out a sheaf of bills.

"Thank you, Rachel." he offered her payment.

"You owe me an additional seventy," she told him, "for the food I put in your fridge."

"Lemon biscuits?"

"No cookies, Nolan," she buttoned her blouse carefully, "No. Eggs, milk, cheese. Bread and shaved turkey. For fuck's sake."

She sat on the bed. "I'm not a charity," she sighed, "but I care about you, Nole. Somebody cares about you. You need to take better care of yourself."

He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

"I have to go," she said brusquely. "I have a dinner engagement."

Nolan stabbed a forkful of spinach suspiciously.

Rachel turned, regarding him for a long moment. "There's something else," she said.

"Oh?"

"I've heard this and that."

"About?"

"T-Bone Guthrie."

__________

Thomas "T-Bone" Guthrie had a remarkable talent for burning bridges. Sharp greed and an alarming lack of foresight had led him to the only welcoming bed left to him; a narrow bunk in a hostel dormitory.

Fifteen years prior, having grown tired of living off of the scraps that Dixon Guthrie's crew doled out to him, T-Bone had done some work on the side with Garvey Rush. Then, he'd really mixed oil and water by transacting with the Tens' rivals, the West Eglinton Crew. This had all come to light during a messy, disjointed trial, and it had only been the personal protection of Dixon Guthrie that had kept him in one piece during his incarceration at Kawartha Lakes Correctional.

Neither the Tens nor West Eglinton wanted anything to do with a double-dipping thirty-something ex-con. He'd been staying with his cousin, but had been summarily bounced out of the house when he'd brought a weapon into the home; his cousins all had kids these days, and the nights of hunkering down with weed and whiskey were well and truly over.

He'd gotten his cousin Chris's cel number off of Oreen, another cousin. The kid must be in his twenties; surely he had a floor that T-Bone could crash on. He'd left a number of messages, to no avail. No big deal. He remembered the kid as strange, shy. Maybe the kid slept under a bridge these days. His mother was in a mental hospital or something, wasn't she?

He'd thought about leaving town; maybe heading down south to Detroit. Then, he'd heard that Garvey Rush was back in town.

But where?

T-Bone lay in his bunk, the scent of unwashed bodies and piss thick in his nostrils. He rolled onto his side. Garvey Rush had something that belonged to him.

"Uuuuuuh." a moan from the bunk beneath his. Wheezing. Some homeless, half-wit fuck from Eglinton Flats.

Coughs.

T-Bone thumped the bunk post. "Shut the fuck up."

"Muh, muh, muh, muh...."

T-Bone's temper was rising. "Fucking shut UP!"

He swung down off of his bunk. Yeah, just as he thought. Cressy crouched in the bunk beneath his. Narrow face, dark eyes, and shaved bald except for a narrow stripe of black hair. Tattooed onto one side of his head was a blue crescent. No one at the park knew his name; everyone simply called him 'Crescent'.

Cressy's nose was running. He wiped it on his sleeve, rocking back and forth in the dark. He struggled for breath.

Cressy and his friends were huffers. Lower than crackheads, they hung around the park, sniffing solvents and spray paint. He was a half-wit; damaged and scattered.

"Shut up, fuckwit!" T-Bone hissed.

"Muh..." Cressy looked up. "Muh."

T-Bone snapped. He punched the homeless man in the face, dragged him into the hall and kicked him.

"Shut....the fuck up!" he left the unfortunate target of his rage in the hallway, bleeding into the dirty carpet.

He returned to his bunk. There was a thick silence, into which his rage simmered. He was here because Garvey Rush had turned on him. Here in this flea-bitten filth, alone. If Garvey Rush was indeed in Toronto....well, he would be found, and there would be a reckoning.

_________

"Copzilla?" Chris sat in the middle of the bed, watching Les Hastings dress for work.

"Yup."

Chris snickered. "He calls you 'Copzilla'. That's funny."

Les side-eyed Chris. Les had shaved carefully, creating a trim, immaculate beard. He buttoned his shirt, and selected a tie.

"Lieutenant is smart," Les conceded. "You don't listen to him, you miss stuff."

"You look good," Chris said shyly.

"Tie my tie?"

Chris rose, reluctantly, and began to tie a slow, careful Windsor knot. "You look really good."

"I have court. What you doing today."

"I have court, too," Chris said. He didn't elaborate.

After Lesley had left, Chris poured himself a coffee, and sat on the back step with Kojak, trying to coax himself awake. He surveyed the yard, eyes locking onto something.

He froze.

In the middle of the back yard was a brand new basketball.

He set down his coffee, walked down the stairs. He looked down at the ball for such a long time that Kojak came over to nose it.

Slowly, Chris Guthrie reached down, picking up the ball. His heart thudded in his chest. He looked at the back gate, but there was no one standing at it.

"Shit," he whispered. "Damn..."

__________

He hadn't played street ball in ages. Chris rooted around in his closet, finding shorts and a jersey. His shoes were a mess, but they'd do. He had no athletic socks. He couldn't very well wear dress socks.

Biting his lip, he looked over at Lesley's dresser. Les had larger feet, but surely his socks would fit. Chris went over, running his hand along the surface of the drawer. He'd barely ever touched Lesley's dresser. He'd never touched the gun safe, nor the lock-box. He stood there, fingers toying with the pulls.

_It's just socks._

Chris slid the drawer open, peering inside. Yes, white socks, and a box, about the size of a candy-bar. Lesley had written on the box, with a Sharpie pen: _Christian. XO._

 Chris smiled. Les had a small present for him? Was it cologne? Aftershave? Les knew how Chris collected scents. Maybe Sandalwood, his favourite.

 

_Oh. OH. NO._

 

It wasn't cologne. It wasn't body wash. It was a sex toy. A vibrator.

 With a squawk, Chris slammed the drawer shut. _Daaaaammmmmn. Damn._

 He backed up until he bumped into the bed and sat down, face flushed and lip clenched between his teeth.

_Christian. XO._ Lesley had a toy, for him, in his sock drawer. A toy.

 They'd never played with toys....not really. And yet....

 Les was obviously planning to introduce this idea to Chris. To use the toy to....

 Chris began to ache between his legs. He put his hand down, pressing against his stubborn erection, to shush it.

_Oh GOD, really?_

He began to snicker.

They had both been so busy, and the case in which they were both entangled had chipped away at their time and energy. Maybe Les wanted to reconnect with his young lover.

Chris got up again, approached the drawer and opened it. Quick as wildfire, he snatched out a pair of white athletic socks and slammed the drawer again.

He threw the socks on to the bed with the rest of his gear, and went to shower. He turned it on, hot, hissing as he stood under the steam.

He reached for the bodywash, lathering his arms and shoulders, eyes closed. He soaped his chest and belly, bumping into his hard-on as if it was a stranger in the room.

When had Les gotten that? Had he walked into a shop and....browsed? No, he'd probably gotten it online. But....had he sat down with a beer and a VIsa card, looking for something which with to pleasure Chris? To stimulate him?

Chris moaned. His fingers wrapped around his cock, squeezing gently. "Yeah," he whispered.

Did Lesley know what to _do_ with the toy? How to touch him with it? _Would he fuck him with it?_

Whimpering, Chris began to stroke harder.

"Yeah...is it for me?" he panted. Would Les take charge, placing him face down on the bed, and spread his legs?

Chris groaned, fisting himself furiously, then slowly circling his thumb over the head of his cock, to intensify the ache.

When would he be given the toy? Oh, he'd be a good boy. He'd be such a good boy....

A series of yelps echoed off of the bathroom tiles as he stroked himself over the edge, coming hot and hard, buttocks flexing and clenching under the hot spray.

Afterward, he slumped bonelessly against the tiles, panting and dizzy.

_Such a good boy._


	13. Buzzz

They'd made the cover of _Now Magazine_.

Jean read:

 _August 22, 2009_ _TORONTO JAZZ FESTIVAL ISSUE:_ _POPPING CHERRY KIRSCH'_

 _'Now Magazine recently sat down with Toronto horn player Rocky Joel Lee, 42._ _Lee, a former performance jazz instructor at Humber College, has traded the lecture hall for the music hall._ _'Unretired', was the word used by the imposing yet affable Dominican-Canadian musician.'_

"Affable!" Jean snorted.

_'Asked about his jazz ensemble, Lee was quick to point out, "This isn't my project, strictly speaking. It's a collaborative ensemble, and the brain child of two of my former students, bassist and bandleader Jean Kirschstein, 23 and guitarist Chris Guthrie, 23._

"Band _leader_ ," Jean repeated, spraying oatmeal cookie crumbs.

_'Guthrie and Kirschstein are joined by vocalist Lydia Adandwale 27, who combines classical training with a gospel background and drummer Connor (Connie) Springer, a rowdy, savvy import from Ballymun, Dublin._

"See? I never fookin' start anything!" Connie stabbed a drumstick at Jean. "One wee dust-up at a wedding and now it's bloody Connie Springer, rowdy-this and feisty-that."

 _'Clearly the elder statesman of the group, Lee is asked if his presence exerts a stabilizing influence over the young quintet._ _"I'm the glue," Lee laughs loudly. "Lydia and Chris are more technical, more focused. Connie and Kirschy are spontaneous, creative.'_

"How is running through the fountain in Nathan Phillips Square with no damn pants on, considered creative?" Chris wanted to know.

 _The ensemble, dubbed 'Cherry Kirsch' opens this year's festival at Toronto jazz fixture 'Brighton,' a billiards and supper club in the city's east end. The club, located on the fringe of the gay village, has been home to local jazz and blues bands for decades._ _Openly-gay guitarist Guthrie, an emerging voice in the LGBTQIA community, had this to add: 'Straight media imposes context upon queer artists; the push-back is to make that context increasingly fluid, until visible inclusion is the norm and not the exception.'_

"Was that fookin' english?" Connie frowned at Chris.

"What about _me?_ " Jean was miffed. He flopped into the ancient armchair in Cherry Kirsch's new rehearsal space. It squeaked in protest.

"What about you?" Connie snorted.

"I'm bisexual. I'm in a gay relationship. I'm like a voice of the community, too."

Connie tapped the snare drum, turning the tuning key carefully. "Y'are?"

"Yeah...." Jean didn't sound fully convinced.

"You were away for a couple years," Chris interjected, fiddling with his iPhone. "I was here. I did my grad year and Marco had me on 'Wake Up Humber' alot. Then I was on CBC, don't forget. I've always been gay, I've always been out. I've spoken on that, and I've spoken on synesthesia, dude."

"I thought you were shagging that Chinese bird?" Connie turned back to Jean, confused.

"Not really," Jean winced.

"Wot's her fookin' name? Makayla?"

"Mikasa," supplied Chris. We met her at a music fest. Quiet. Brainy. Kinda...I dunno..."

"Can we not talk about me!" Jean huffed.

"Since when?" teased Rocky Joel.

Jean continued to read:

_'Cherry Kirsch will be at Brighton all week, offering jazz standards set to fresh, new arrangements by Kirschstein.'_

"Fresh new arrangements," Jean nodded approvingly. "by Kirschstein."

Chris made a sound then, cheeks flushing under his fawn skin.

He pressed his phone against his chest. He'd left Lesley a fumbly message earlier that morning.

 _"Hi....I....um...yeah. I borrowed some socks. I...yeah."_ He'd disconnected, heart hammering.

It was the closest he'd been able to get to admitting that he'd seen the contents of Lesley's sock drawer.

Les hadn't replied, at least not directly. Not until now. He'd sent Chris a text. A single, green heart emoticon.

It was an invitation.

Chris flushed uncontrollably. None of his bandmates knew what it meant.

"Lydia?" he asked. "Lyd, where are the happy faces and stuff again?" he passed her his iPhone.

"Why?" Jean perked up, grinning slyly. "What're you doing?"

"Nothing!"

"What?" Jean giggled.

"Piss off."

Lydia took the phone, tapping it with her slender fingers. "Okay, honey. What do you want?"

Chris moved a little closer to Lydia. "Like," he whispered, "like, a purple heart."

Click.

Jean whooped delightedly. "What?" he grinned widely, "is Lester sexting???"

Chris turned around, one eyebrow raised under a spiral of curls.

"Glass houses, bro..." he reminded his bandmate.

"So, what?" Connie was still puzzling out Jean's romantic entanglements, "you're shagging the freckled bloke with the rockabilly jeans? Not the Chinese bird?"

"Aaaaaaagh!"

"Here's a novel idea," Rocky Joel rumbled, "how about we practise some?"

________________

Chris emerged into a hot August evening. His skin thrummed pleasantly. Singing wth Lydia smoothed out the stress bands pulling painfully across his shoulders.

As he walked, he looked back over his shoulder. He remained convinced that he was being watched. "Well," he said aloud to his watcher as he walked across Wellesley Avenue toward the subway, "Let's go walk the dog."

As Chris descended the stairs into the subway underground, a realization washed over him, warm as the blast through the subway tunnel which heralded the approaching train:  _What if it's someone good that's watching me? Someone I trust?_

"Fuck," he said softly. By the time he'd shoved himself into an eastbound subway car, apologizing for his guitar case and bag, he'd convinced himself of it.

As he let himself in the back kitchen door, Kojak barked a joyful greeting.

"Kojooo!" he ruffled the dog's ears. "Where's your leash?"

The dog went over to the kitchen hook, tugging on his red leash.

Chris's phone buzzed. Lesley.

"Hey," he said into the phone. A pause, and then Les's voice, unusually firm: "Christian."

"Yes?" his belly fluttered.

"Did you walk the dog?"

"We're just going now."

"Good. What's for dinner?"

Chris moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. "Grilled fish," he replied, "with balsamic veggies."

"I'd like some new potatoes with it, please." the rich, purple red tone. Chris pressed his hips against the counter.

"Yes, sir." he whispered.

"Good. Thank you, Christian." Les hung up the phone.

Chris expelled a long breath. Sometimes, they role-played. Christian gave up control, Lesley exerted it. They hadn't played in a long while. Lesley had texted him a green heart; it was an invitation to play. Chris had replied with a purple one; an acceptance.

Chris clipped Kojak's leash on, and took the fish out of the freezer.

"We need peppers," he told Kojak.

__________

When they got back to the Riverdale house, Chris fed Kojak, took the dog's bedding and jammed it into the washer.

Then he showered, changed and set the table. It had to be perfect; polished cutlery in an even line, napkins folded precisely.

He went outside and started the barbecue, steaming the fish in foil, with lemon and Caribbean spice. He tossed the veggies in a wire basket, drizzling them with coconut oil and balsamic vinegar.

He was finishing up as the Buick swung into it's parking spot. He grinned.

He went into the kitchen and poured a beer into a tall Pilsener glass; he seemed to hear the bubbles moving in amber, like tiny bells. This pleased him.

He brought the beer to Lesley, who had come in through the back door. Lesley's eyes were on him, dark and heated.

"Come here, please," Les ordered him quietly.

Chris stepped forward, until he was inches from Lesley. Les hooked a finger under Chris's chin, turned up his pretty face and covered his lips softly with his own. One long arm reached around his waist, slid down, cupping Chris's ass.

"Is my supper ready?"

"Yes, sir." Chris rasped.

They ate, sitting side by side, talking softly. Les's leg pressed hotly against Chris's under the table, his hand on Chris's neck, fingertips teasing the soft skin at the nape, pulling and twirling the curls.

Chris had made chocolate mousse for dessert. For better or worse, Lesley's sweet tooth had been encouraged by his boss; he now had a taste for coconut macaroons, and rich chocolate.

Les dipped his spoon into the small glass dessert dish, feeding Chris a mouthful of mousse. 

"Do I," he began carefully, "go rooting through your things without asking?"

Chris lowered his eyes demurely, long lashes sweeping his cheeks. "No," he admitted. "Never."

"But you helped yourself to my socks, didn't you?" Chris looked up. Lesley's dark eyes pinned him. He squirmed.

"Yes," he nodded.

Les took another leisurely spoonful of the mousse. Chris parted his lips.

"Do you have something to say to me?" Les eased the spoon between the full lips. Chris sucked on the spoon.

"I..." Chris hesitated, swallowing.

"Are you sorry?"

Chris clamped his lower lip in his teeth.

"Well, no..." he looked up, hopelessly. "I needed socks, Papi. For street ball. I needed white socks and I don't have any. You do."

Les raised an eyebrow. "That makes it okay?"

"Yes?" A dimpled grin. "No? I don't kno–uh!"

The air was knocked out of Chris as Lesley hauled him out of his chair, threw him over one broad shoulder and strode toward the staircase.

"Arf!" Kojak raised himself from his bed in the kitchen.

"You, stay!" Les ordered. "And you," he smacked Chris on the ass, "gonna learn some manners!"

"Jesus! Don't drop me!" Chris hollered.

__________

He'd stripped Chris naked, except for the bright white ankle socks he'd stolen. His boy lay face-down on their bed.

Lesley pressed two fingers, softly, between Chris's shoulder blades.

"You stay still," his voice was low, scraping at Chris's insides.

Chris's fingers flexed around a corner of the quilt.

Lesley rose and stripped off his work clothes, scooping them into the hamper. He went into the adjoining bathroom and Chris heard the hiss of the shower.

He remained where he was, motionless, as Lesley had asked him to. He felt himself melting into the charcoal grey sheets...Lesley's energy and strength enfolding him, rendering him pliant.

Beneath him, his cock throbbed, pressed between his belly and the bedsheets. He rocked his hips a little, pleasure coursing through his groin.

The water shut off, and he heard Lesley reenter the room. He raised his head a little, feeling the fingers on his back again, pressing lightly.

"Did I allow you to move?"

"No, sir."

Chris shut his eyes. Drawers opened. Oh god, _the_ drawer opened. The lights dimmed.

Then, a sweet scent: lemongrass.

"Oh..."

Lesley knew how to appeal to his cross-wired senses perfectly.

The bed dipped slightly, and Lesley passed oil-scented fingers across his aching shoulders.

"That smells so nice..."

The fingers swirled, slow circles, up, massaging his neck and back. He sighed.

__________

Lesley stopped, watching the shiny trail of lemongrass oil that wove between Chris's vertibrae.

He inhaled slowly. Exhaled.

This was, for him, incredibly simple. Chris's capitulation allowed Lesley slow, unrestricted time to appreciate his lover; to stare as boldly as he liked, to touch as slowly as he wished. To press gentle fingers against the vulnerable nape of the boy's neck, which hid beneath the brown curls...to marvel at the warmth, the vital spirit hidden just beneath the surface of the smooth brown skin.

To close his eyes, unobserved, and give silent thanks for the presence of this young man in his life, hoping that his fingers might draw out some small measure of Christian's essence; his talent and his energy, that Lesley might share in it.

_Beautiful, precious boy._

He poured lemongrass oil into this palm, heating it. Then, he began a slow, languid massage, coaxing away the toxins, the nightmares, the tension.

His hands moved, slow and sure, across Chris's shoulders, up and down the length of his back. He took one pliant arm, soothing it in long strokes, and then the other.

Chris unravelled; slowly at first, and then dipping into semi-conscious bliss.

Lesley's fingers ghosted across his rounded buttocks. Chris's breath caught in his throat; he began to tremble with the effort of holding still, gooseflesh pebbling his skin.

Les sat back on his heels. His boy's skin glowed, the room suffused with the green, fresh scent. The fading evening light caught the planes of Chris's body; curved and sinuous.

Les brushed a finger slowly down the seam of the boy's bottom.

"Did you come in my sheets?"

"No..." Chris gasped, "...sir."

Lesley placed one hand on each of Chris's thighs, spreading his legs slowly. The white socks followed innocently along.

Les bent his head then, bending so close that he felt the heat of the boy's skin on his face, and very softly, almost chastely, kissed the inside of Chris's thigh. His tongue flicked out, catching the groove between Chris's thigh and his balls.

"Oh, fuck!" Chris arched his back. He got his bottom slapped for his trouble.

"I said, you be still."

Lesley dragged a slick hand down each of Chris's weary calves, and back up, massaging the hamstrings.

Chris was panting now, fisting the bedsheets.

Les placed a hand onto the twitching bottom, rubbing soft circles. "You look very pretty in my stolen socks," he remarked. "Spread wider."

Chris's legs jacknifed, knees moving further out, socked feet coming closer together.

Les moved again, and Chris smelled a honey-scent. Lube.

He whimpered.

Les had climbed off the bed, his face close to Christian's.

"Turn your face here," Les whispered. Chris did, finding his mouth captured in a kiss.

Lesley kissed him with a deliberate heat, coaxing his mouth open, deepening the kiss ever so slowly, making Chris anticipate the rasp of his tongue. Lesley pressed his tongue against Chris's, in a delicate rhythm, a single finger sliding into his ass.

Chris groaned; holding still was impossible. He rubbed against the sheets, his cock hot and hard, impaling himself on Lesley's fingers with each backstroke.

Les stopped then, pulling away gently, the weight of his hand resting on Chris's bottom.

"Should I smack you for stealing my socks?" Les's voice had roughened. "I should," he concluded. "You need it. You think these socks are your socks, now?"

It had occurred to Chris. "Yeah," he gasped. "Maybe they are."

Lesley cracked a firm hand across his squirming cheeks. The delicious rush of heat made Chris whine.

Les smacked him again, the hand coming down, squeezing gently, the fingers pushing inside of him.

"Fuck," Les growled, "Damn it, Chris..."

He spanked the rounded bottom again, caressing the slick cheeks, pushing his fingers inside. Chris writhed, helpless.

Then, he heard a whine, like a huge prehistoric mosquito.

"Aaaah!" he flipped over, honey eyes huge, laughing. "Oh, man!"

Les lay alongside him, propped up on one elbow. Chris rolled around on the bed, laughing. "Oh, dude. It's...loud!"

Les watched him, with amusement. "It is," he agreed.

"Turn it off."

"Okay."

Les snuggled closer. Chris turned his head, seeking a kiss.

After a few moments, he spoke. "Can I hold it?"

"Of course."

The vibrator was blue, with a soft, skin-like sheath and a gently tapered head.

"It's not big," Chris remarked.

"Doesn't need to be," Les said. Chris turned the toy on, then off. "B-flat," he snickered. "It's a B-flat note. The buzzz."

He fingered the textured surface. Put the toy down. He lay back on the pillows, curls framing his face.

His lips were reddened, eyes dark. "Sir, will you make me come?"

__________

Lesley dragged Chris to the edge of the bed, flat on his back, one foot on the floor, the other leg draped across Lesley's back. Les bent his head, tongue flicking and sampling the red, swollen bits between his boy's legs.

He tongued the twitching little hole, pulled Chris's balls softly into his mouth, pressed his nose into the soft hair. He raised his head, watching Chris's face as he closed his fingers slowly around his throbbing cock and stroked, lightly.

"Please," Chris's hips jerked, trying to coax Les into increasing the friction.

"You be patient," Les's eyes locked onto his.

The fist released, one finger dragging up and down Chris's cock. _"Please, Papi!"_

"Poor baby," Les whispered.

Chris gritted his teeth, then opened his mouth, gasping in relief as his aching erection was slowly sucked into Les's mouth. "Oh, _God...yes..._ "

It was still too slow. His heart was pounding, groin knotted. "Lesley..."

"Mmm?"

His lover's tongue pressed against the underside of his cock, rubbing.

"Can you just... _I need_...I...."

Les's fingers slid underneath him, tickling his ass playfully.

"I... _fuck,_ put it..." Chris panted, "...put it inside...me...please?"

Les slowly released Chris's cock from his mouth. "Are you sure?"

"Yes...YEAH..."

Chris heard the giant mosquito again, but didn't care, crying out with pleasure as Les teased his hole gently with the lubricated toy, circling, pressing softly, slowly.

It was intense. Chris whimpered and rocked his hips, his cock sliding in and out of Lesley's mouth, his body spasming around the toy, causing his nerves to spark.

"That's it," Les wrapped his fist firmly around Chris's cock. His strong fingers stroked Chris, his voice pushing Chris over the edge, "Come, baby...come..."

Chris sobbed, squirming through the convulsions, soaking the sheets. His heart hammered, body knotting with the pleasure.

"Not done?" Les murmured. "you want me to fuck you?"

"Yeah..." he gasped, "I'm still hard...it feels like I need to come again..."

Les growled, flipping Chris onto his belly and bending him over pillows at the edge of the bed. Chris's sock feet hit the carpet with a thud.

He felt the toy slowly slide out of him, and then moaned as Lesley's thick cock filled him from behind.

"Mine," Les thrust, gently, trembling with the effort of restraint. He reached out, grabbing a handful of curls gently.

"Is today a hair tug day?" he asked.

"Yeah," Chris laughed, feeling Les's fist tighten in his hair.

Chris spread his legs, arching his back, needing the fullness of Lesley inside of him.

"Bad boy," Les fucked him slowly, "just a bad boy, in little white socks that ain't his..." he smacked Chris's bottom. "Such a bad...tight...boy..."

He fucked Chris harder then, rhythm erratic, grabbing his lover's hips, watching the soft curls part over the nape of the boy's neck, feeling the sock feet pressing against his legs.

Chris moaned brokenly, peaking a second time, thrashing deliciously and pulling Lesley over the edge.

"Damn..." Les gasped, thrusting into the spasms, "God, Chris..."

__________

Later, as the house settled down for the night, they sat in the bath soaking, the silence thick and sweet.

Chris held one of his white socks triumphantly on his hand, like a puppet.

"These are mine now," he announced.

"As you wish," Lesley's eyes slid shut, sleepily. "You can have _all_ the socks, baby..."

Anything his boy wanted. Anything.

 

 


	14. Moneyball

Les liked the sour cream donuts best; the glazed ones. He despised himself for it. He sat with Lieutenant Nolan Medavoy in an unmarked vehicle at the edge of Eglinton Flats. Les glanced sidelong at Medavoy. Nolan's windbreaker was sprayed with crumbs from a half-eaten honey bun. But his small hazel eyes were sharp and hard; he scanned the park, missing nothing.

Medavoy documented everything by hand; he'd explained that it helped to cement the details for him. His desk was a maelstrom of files, pages and notebooks. Les had once tracked a finger through the thick dust that glazed his barely-used laptop's screen.

The chaotic disorder grated on Les, as did so many things about Medavoy; however, the bones of the senior detective's procedure were beginning to reveal themselves, and they amazed Les. He was learning how to connect events, behaviour and forensic evidence on increasingly deeper levels.

Eglinton Flats was a sprawling green and treed space northwest of Weston Road, Garvey Rush's old neighbourhood. One quadrant of the park hosted a row of asphalt basketball courts. This was the hub of business in the neighbourhood.

There was a soccer field, meandering pathways, picnic areas and a childrens' playground. There was a cement underpass, home to those that had nowhere else to go. The police routinely swept the park, trying to encourage the homeless to find shelter during the heat warnings of summer, and the bitter cold of Toronto winters.

Nolan Medavoy's newly-formed homicide unit had taken up position at Eglinton Flats. Sandra Chang and Vince Yip patrolled to park, on foot and in uniform. Les Hastings and Medavoy wore plainclothes, surveilling the park from an unmarked car.

Nolan Medavoy fished into his pocket, pulling out a twenty dollar bill.

"Hastings," he jabbed Les, "see that little deli across the park there? They make fresh rice pudding. Do me a favour, pop over there and grab me one, would ya?"

Les sighed.

"Coffee too. Three sugars."

Hastings got out of the car, cutting across the park and under a stand of elm trees, to the street.

A few individuals huddled on the park benches, keeled over to nap in dirty coats, grey and green. Lesley's eyes flicked to each of them.

The deli had rice pudding, espresso, and the custard tarts that Chris liked. Les emerged with a container of pudding, and a cardboard tray with two coffees and a tart.

He started back across the park. A movement caught his eye then; a figure, in a dirty, second-hand fireman's coat, squatting on a bench under one of the large elms.

The man had a thin, aquiline face, large, dark eyes, and a smattering of cuts and bruises on his face. His head was shaved at the sides, and he sported a tattoo on his skull; a blue crescent moon. He rocked methodically, back-and-forth, as if to soothe himself.

As Les approached, the man shot him a furtive glance, pulling the fireman's coat tighter.

"Hah," he coughed.

Les stopped, studying the figure. He'd obviously been beaten. Les took a few steps closer, and the cloying odour of the unwashed man filled his nostrils.

"Bah!" the man said loudly, flapping a hand at Les.

"I just went to get pudding," Les said neutrally, sitting down slowly on the far end of the bench. "that's all."

He opened the container. "See?"

"Pud," said the man.

"Yeah," Les nodded. "Pudding. He took a plastic spoon out of the paper bag, jabbing it into the warm pudding. "Look. There's nothing wrong with it. It's good." He ate a spoonful.

The dark eyes watched him.

"I already had donuts," Les explained. "How about you eat this?" He put the styrofoam container onto the bench, pushing it toward the homeless man.

"Pud," the man nodded, snaking out a dirty hand, wrapped in a bandage.

"What's your name?" Les asked. "I'm Lesley."

"Pud."

"Your name is Pud?"

"No. Bah!" The man was eyeing Lesley's coffee with keen interest.

"Here," Les sighed, placing the paper cup onto the bench with the rice pudding.

The man pointed to his head, fingering the tattoo. "Crescent."

"Your name....your name is Crescent?"

A brief nod, and then Crescent began shovelling the pudding into his mouth.

"Okay then," Les stood up.

He got back to the car and opened the passenger door.

"What the fuck?" grumbled Medavoy.

"What?" Les shot back. "He's hungry." He handed Medavoy his coffee.

"Where's my change?"

__________

Marco appeared on Chris's back porch early the next morning. He looked bright, clean and varsity pristine. "Morning!" he greeted Chris cheerfully.

Chris sighed. "You're all matchy-matchy," he chuckled. "Blue jersey, blue shorts, blue socks. Jesus."

"Why?" the freckled face fell.

"No, nothing, bro..." Chris clapped him on the shoulder. It's okay. You just look really.... _collegiate_ , is all."

"Well, hey. I played college ball. This is all I got. What'd you do, borrow Lesley's socks?'

Chris bobbled the coffee can, spilling some into the sink. "No!! Yeah. Why?"

Jean wandered in. "Hey."

"Dude."

Chris poured water into the coffee maker, punching a button. "So Kirschy, bro. You good with today?"

"Yeah, sure."

"So you know it's two-on-two. Me and Marco."

Jean reached into the fridge, grabbing a mango juice. "Yeah. two-on-two."

"You're okay?" Chris asked. "It's just Marco played college ball, is all. And we need to stay on the court."

"Yeah, yeah..." Jean leaned against the counter, crossing his legs. "I mean, I can't be good at everything, right? And I'm the best looking."

Marco grinned. Chris snorted.

__________

Eglinton Flats shimmered in the Toronto heat. Jean parked his cab at the edge of the park.

Chris made no move to get out; he sat, scanning the basketball courts, tongue wetting his lips absently.

"Is he here?" Marco leaned forward.

"I dunno. No."

"Would you recognize him, still?"

Chris paused. "Yeah. I think so. He's big...he's taller than Les. Everyone on Weston Road knew who he was."

"Why d'you think he's here?"

"There's just been....some shit. Someone's been hanging around, you know. Watching me. Les tried to blow it off, but he's totally on edge, too."

"Did you talk to your cousin?"

"No. I've got no plans to talk to T-Bone. Tee's not right in the head. My dad had a bad temper. He was high half the time. But Tee is different. He's low-key mean, all the time. He might be hanging around today, I dunno. Can't avoid him forever."

"You can handle yourself," Jean pointed out.

"I forget that, sometimes."

__________

At eighteen, Chris had done a number of things to make ends meet. These had included busking, taking market research surveys for money, and hustling at the basketball courts. He was a decent enough player to come away with pocket money, more often than not.

Friends from Weston Road still hung out at the courts. Also the Tens, which gave him no trouble, on account of his dad. And the Greeks, who gave him a wide berth for the same reason.

Marco looked around the park, bright-eyed. He'd never played street ball; it had been against regulations for college players to participate in betting games. But, Marco was out of school now, about to travel. He'd made some contacts in Chile, in the building trades. He glowed like a blue angel in the mid-morning sun.

Jean looked around furtively; he'd determined that his role was to watch Chris's back. He noted the children shrieking and running in the play area. The hovering mothers, shading their eyes. The bulky forms of the homeless, seeking the shade of the elm trees. He averted his eyes, feeling a stab of shame.

Chris pointed to a bench at the far end of the courts. "Hang out here, 'kay?" he asked.

He parked his friends, grabbed his ball, and sauntered over to the main court. He nodded at a few individuals. There was a two-on-two game in progress; Chris recognized three of the players from the neighbourhood. He waited, watching. Between his fingers, discreetly, he'd sandwiched a fifty-dollar bill.

After some time, a thickset guy about his own age approached. "Chris."

"Hey, Dead Robin."

"Where you been?"

"Music school. Teaching."

"Huh. T-Bone's out, you know."

"I know."

Dead Robin looked sidelong at Chris. "You want a game?"

Chris twitched the two fingers holding the fifty.

Dead Robin took the bill, pocketing it. "Good. You and who?"

Chris jerked his thumb toward the bench at the end of the court. Marco, beaming, waved enthusiastically.

Dead Robin laughed. "Whaaaat? What'd you do, get the _whitest_ white boy you could find?"

"He's a school friend. He played Provincial level ball."

Dead Robin chuckled, shaking his head. "Fuck, Chris. _Fuck_..."

__________

Marco wasn't sure what to do. He'd heard the rattle of a propellant can. He'd looked over, underneath the elm trees. One of the people, a guy in a fireman's coat, sprawled on the grass, a can of solvent beside him.

He elbowed Jean in the ribs. "Dude, look."

"I know," Jean said quietly. "It's sad."

"I'm going over there."

"Chris said to stay here."

Marco held his hands out, palms up. He got up, wandering over to the trees. The figure sat up. Marco felt his hackles rise, caught between pitying the man, and fearing him. What if he had a weapon?

"Hey," he said. "You okay?"

The man stared. He had bruises on his face, and a blue moon on his skull.

He smeared a hand across his face, wiping his nose.

Marco took an uncertain step. He pulled a ten dollar bill out of his pocket. "Sorry," he said awkwardly. "Here..."

"Bah!" the man exclaimed. Marco jumped. His heart hammered.

"Sorry," he placed the bill onto the grass, and moved away. The wind picked up the money. With a frustrated cry, Marco chased it down the path.

Then, Chris was beckoning to him. He trotted over to the court.

"Dead Robin has our ante," Chris told him.

"Did you say, 'Dead Robin'?"

"Yeah. When we were kids, he found a dead robin. He carried it around in his bike basket until it started to smell."

Marco and Chris tipped off against Cha-Cha and Ian Mann, both of whom Chris knew. Marco got bumped hard, and shoved. But, this was his wheelhouse and he quickly gave back as good as he got.

Jean lounged on the sidelines. He watched Chris and Marco's game. He watched the strange "Bah!" man in the park. He kept an eye out for a tall man, in his fifties. He observed two uniformed cops near the playground.

Chris and Marco won their match.

Chris chugged a Powerade, swiping at his face. He yanked his curls back into an elastic. It was going to be a long, hot day. He and Marco had to keep the court as long as possible.

They beat two more pairs. In the final match, Chris came close to a dust-up with one of the players, who'd decided to mouth off to Marco.

They lost the court then, in the heat of the Toronto afternoon.

"I'm starving," Marco noted, slumping onto the bench.

"You were awesome," Chris nodded at him. "Thank you. Seriously."

"No worries," Marco slung an arm around Chris.

"Food," Jean whined.

"Kay."

They went to McDonald's. Marco bought an extra burger and fries. On the way back through the park, Marco left the pathway, approaching the homeless man under the elm trees.

"Hey," he said. "I...uh...I brought you some food."

The dark eyes narrowed. The homeless man turned his back on Marco.

"It's....it's McDonald's."

"Bah!" grumbled the man, "Yuck!"

Marco Bodt stood in the park, at a loss.

__________

The afternoon shadows grew long, striping the park. Mothers called their squeaking offspring out of the wading pools, bundling them reluctantly home for dinner.

A game was being played on the soccer pitch, teen girls. Parents in portable lawn chairs littered the sidelines.

Chris chatted quietly with a few guys that he knew. He introduced Marco and Jean. Marco received a few accolades for his game, and a bit of ribbing about his colourful attire.

Dead Robin melted into the shadows, to talk business.

"Well?" Jean asked.

"We go," Chris said quietly. "I guess...."

"Sorry," Marco said.

Chris looked up. Blinked.

There he was.

Standing at the end of the chain link fence, leaning against a steel post, was Garvey Rush.

Chris froze, staring. Was he imagining the figure there? Tall, round-shouldered, with a scrub of grey hair.

"Uh....."

The figure raised his hand then, holding up five fingers.

 

_"How old are you, then?"_

_Chris held up a chubby hand, five small fingers aloft._

_"You're five years old. That's good."_

 

Chris wheeled around backward, his throat filling, tears pricking his eyes.

"What?"

"There. He's there. By the fence."

"Oh....oh, man. You want us to wait?"

Chris shook his head. "No...if it's cool with you...I'll just..."

He left his friends, his legs shaking, and walked across the court. His heart thudded in his chest.

A few feet from Garvey, he stopped. Memories flooded back to him; a gush of colours, smells, sound. A childhood at once wonderful, magical, violent. His skin prickled. He stood, rooted.

"I heard," the slow, easy rumble of Garvey Rush's voice, "that two boys were making quite a show of themselves down here at the Flats. Dix Guthrie's kid and a big white boy." He smiled.

"Hey," Chris breathed. He swallowed, the mechanism releasing tears.

"Look at you," Garvey nodded. "Just look at you. You're a good size." and Chris was scooped into a fierce hug. "But not too big to hug, mind."

"I looked for you...I looked."

"I know."

__________

Chris sat across from Garvey Rush in a quiet corner of the deli near the park. In front of him, untouched, was a mug of tea and a pastrami sandwich.

Garvey leaned on the table, thick forearms nearly spanning the table.

"You're a decent player," Garvey said, "Cha-cha, he got your number, tho."

"You still play?"

A chuckle. "I still try."

"You've been away...."

"Yeh. I been away. Down in Detroit."

"When, uh...when did you get back?"

"Couple months back." Garvey surveyed him. "Look at you," he repeated again. "Look at you. You're twenty-three, now."

"You know that I'm twenty-three?" Chris smiled wanly.

"I do."

Chris paused, glancing out of the window, at the summer evening. "Garvey, did you come around, looking for me?"

Garvey Rush sat back in his chair. "Chris, that question got a real long answer."

"I got time."

__________

A grey Dodge Charger circled Eglinton Flats. Twice. It stopped, in a small parking lot between the soccer field and the playground, in the shadows.

From his vantage point, parked on the street, Medavoy  and Hastings observed. Les punched his laptop, running the plates.

"Talk to me, Chang." Medavoy spoke into a headset.

"Yes, confirmed." Sandra Chang, now wearing a dress and pushing a stroller, hovered at the edge of the wading pool.

"Okay. Detective Yip, go say hi."

Les, sitting beside Medavoy, watched Vince Yip approach the car.

The window rolled down. In the car sat T-Bone Guthrie.

"Evening," Yip said conversationally.

"You need something, Officer?" T-Bone asked.

"Everything going okay, Tee?"

"It will be," T-Bone remarked, "when I get back what's mine."

"Sorry?"

"Where's Medavoy?" T-Bone leaned to look past Yip. "I'm not stupid."

"May I ask whose car this is?"

"You already know," T-Bone got out of the vehicle. "The plate check say it's my auntie's car, don't it?"

He was small, wiry and on-edge.

"So, you waiting for somebody?" Yip asked.

" _Med-a-voy,_ " T-Bone leaned forward, projecting his voice at the wire he assumed Vince Yip was wearing. "Where's my _stuff?_ "

Vince Yip detached his two-way mic. "Hey boss," he said into the device, "somebody wants to say hello." He handed it to T-Bone.

T-Bone took the clip. "Where is my shit?" he barked into the device.

Inside of the unmarked car, Les looked at Medavoy, frowning quizzically.

"How's things, T-Bone?" Medavoy replied.

"Where is your drunk ass?" T-Bone spat, glancing around the darkened park. "Fucking dumb drunk _fuck._ "

"You don't want your stuff back," Medavoy said pleasantly. "that would be possession with intent to sell. It's much better for you if I hang onto it."

"Fuck you," T-Bone held up the device. " _Fuck you,_ Medavoy."

"Have a nice evening, Thomas," Medavoy replied pleasantly.

__________

"We don't have to....talk about it...rehash it all..." Garvey said gently. "I just wanted to see your face, Chris. That's all. Just to see you. See that you're okay."

"T-Bone is out."

"I know that. It was me that put him in."

Chris looked up. He took a sip of tea, hands wrapped around the mug.

"Is it okay if I have questions?"

"Of course, son."

"Why..." Chris looked out of the window. He wasn't sure if it was fatigue, stress, or relief, but he'd been on the verge of tears all afternoon. "Why didn't you say goodbye...to me and mom?"

Garvey sighed. "There's things that will always sit heavy with me. So heavy. That's the heaviest. Is...is she...."

Chris pulled his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie. "Blind. Yeah, she's legally blind. She sees shadows and stuff...she lives at Glenwood. It's a place for visually impaired people, people with disabilities. She's the librarian. She counsels the residents and stuff. She writes books."

Garvey's rheumy eyes filled with tears. "Bless her. And you?"

"Music. Jazz. I graduated Humber two years ago. I...my...I have a boyfriend. He's a good guy."

"It serious?"

Chris nodded. "Yeah."

"Alright now," Garvey laid a hand on Chris's arm. "Chris, there's some things I need to say..."

Chris's phone buzzed. He glanced down. Lesley.

He frowned. Hesitated. Flicked the call decline button.

__________

"Damn!" Les stared at his phone. "He won't pick up."

"That's okay," Medavoy said evenly.

"Lieutenant, we got to remove Chris."

"Medavoy placed a restraining hand on Lesley's arm. "Be patient," he said evenly. "Just wait. Trust Rush. I've been working with him a long time, now."

Les took a few short breaths, in and out. "Why on earth," he muttered, "why on earth he come to play ball today?"

"Why'd you think?"

__________

"Chris," Garvey took a bite of his sandwich, "you were a bright little boy. What you think happened to all those cars came into my backyard?"

"I think they went out in pieces," Chris laughed nervously.

"What our lives were then," Garvey took a swallow of coffee, "was, we did what we had to do. I stayed in my lane."

"You were the king of Weston Road, that's how I sort of remember it."

Garvey laughed then, the loud, mirthful sound Chris remembered. "That's too good. Too good. Some folks just have a talent for keeping the peace. That would be me. Now, your daddy...Dixon got in over his head. He was in deep by the time he was fifteen. Younger, even."

Chris cringed.

"Chris," Garvey said softly, "Dix was high as fuck. That day. Most days. He was his own best customer."

"Why....why did my mom ever..."

"Well, when Dix was sober, he was smart. Quiet-spoken, like. When he wasn't sober, he was violent.You remember what I told you, after Jimmy the Greek died?"

Chris did. They'd been at the hospital, in a waiting room with turquoise padded chairs.

"You told me that the grownups would sort it out, and that I wasn't to worry about what I saw."

"That's right. Your daddy got himself pinched after attacking you and your mom. T-Bone...well, I guess he needed to get scooped up, too. I had a deal going. I was running contraband and cars between Toronto and Detroit. T-Bone was my runner. Tee got greedy though. He took on some side business for the Greeks. Played both sides against the middle. I just told the cops where and when, and they paid him a little visit at the pickup point."

Garvey leaned back. "The deal was, I had to do a stretch, in the States. I was banged up in Michigan for seven years. So, your daddy and Tee never got done for kicking JImmy the Greek to death, but they were inside, away from you and your mom, and that was good enough for me."

"You did that, to keep us safe..." Chris pondered.

"There's more than one way," Garvey smirked, "to skin a cat."

"But T-Bone's out now."

"Yup, and got a bone to pick with me, no doubt."

"Why'd you come back, then?" the amber eyes filled with concern.

"I got a piece of business," Garvey said gently. "one last piece of business to take care of. And I couldn't do it, without...seeing you...without telling you...Chris, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left you and your mom alone that day. I went to the drugstore, and left you alone. I'm sorry...that I did that."

He bowed his head, shaking it hopelessly. "In case I don't get to see you again, you need to know, I kept you in my heart. I did."

Garvey's phone buzzed then.

"Son, I got to go."

"Wait," Chris pleaded, "please, I just..."

Garvey rose, leaned over and kissed Chris's forehead.

"Goodbye, little man."

_________

Garvey Rush strode along the north side of Eglinton Park, pulling out his phone. He'd been in touch with T-Bone Guthrie. He'd told T-Bone that the cops hadn't taken T-Bone's entire stash; part of it had been hidden, in the abandoned gas station, for over a decade.

Garvey had arranged to meet T-Bone, and hand off the money. They'd agreed to go their separate ways after that.

Garvey Rush was wired, and was to start a conversation about JImmy Kanakaredes, with T-Bone Guthrie.

As he walked along, a beige sedan rolled up alongside him. It stopped. So did he. The back door opened and he got in.

He sat in the back seat, regarding Medavoy and Les Hastings.

Hastings face was livid. "What....are you playing at? Do you have any idea...."

"Yes," the grey-haired man nodded. "Yes, I do know what it feels like to care for Chris...he deserved an explanation."

"I was prepared to do that."

"An explanation from me. Not from you."

"Easy," Medavoy held up a hand. Both of you. Enough. You set up the meet?"

"Done."

"Where?"

"Beside the courts."

"Fine. Rush, we've got your back. On all sides. You give the word, we pull the plug."

"No. Let's just get this done, then we be done."

Garvey Rush studied Medavoy. He'd met the detective fifteen years ago, at the hospital. He'd been pudgy and pasty even back then. He'd also smelled of rye. Nonetheless, he'd been gentle with Chris, when he'd removed Chris from Garvey's lap and given him to a nurse.

"You want this done as bad as I want it done," Garvey said quietly. "You couldn't sew things up back then. We've got one more chance."

__________

T-Bone Guthrie strode across the silent, darkened park. To his right, he caught the rich scent of weed. Straight ahead were the basketball courts. If Garvey Rush had money, he wanted it. Needed it; he'd emerged from incarceration to find himself universally despised, and mistrusted.

There was only one thing he wanted more than the stash. He fingered the piece he carried in his pocket, cold rage gripping his belly.

He walked slowly up the pathway. There was a small fire to his right; homeless kids burning stuff. He tripped over something in his path.

"Uhhh," it moaned. It smelled.

"Fuck you...huffed-out little _fuck_ ," his boot landed in Crescent's ribs. "Get the fuck out of here!"

Crescent said nothing; his mouth gaping for air like a fish as he curled in a ball on the ground. T-Bone stepped on the McDonald's burger the homeless man had been eating, squishing it into the pavement.

_________

Chris sat at the deli, staring forlornly out the window. It was dark. There were places he was supposed to be: at home feeding Kojak. At vocal practice with Lydia. Editing videos for the parents of his music students. Instead, he sat in the deli, his sweet face pinched and sad. Chris Guthrie could count on one hand, the people that loved him unconditionally. And he'd just let one of them walk out the door. He rose, left some cash on the table and ran out the door, toward Eglinton Flats.

__________

Garvey Rush stood behind the bleachers, by the basketball court.

T-Bone approached, stopping some distance from the older man.

"How much?"

Garvey regarded T-Bone. "Sixty-five. I kept it safe."

T-Bone said nothing.

"You owe me, if you think about it," Garvey said offhandedly. "You only got done for running gear. You never got done for Jimmy the Greek."

T-Bone sucked on his teeth. "That how you see things?"

"That's how I see things. You and Dix got a free pass. No one looking at you, for that."

"Jimmy the Greek stole from me," T-Bone said coldly, "and I took him out."

He drew his gun.

__________

Chris ran toward the park, not knowing where to look for Garvey. Would he have come back this way? He loped around the basketball court. He saw no one. Off under the trees, some kids were smoking up. He stopped, listening.

__________

The admission was all that Nolan Medavoy needed. "Go," he gave the order to his team, stationed around the park. "Go, go!"

Les Hastings sprang out of the car, sprinting across the park.

_________

Chris had come around the bleachers. There, in the yellowish pool of the court lights, he made out the figure of Garvey Rush, and that of his cousin T-Bone. T-Bone raised his arm, firing and hitting Garvey Rush in the chest. Two pops.

A cry of rage burst from Chris's lips. T-Bone raised his head, squinting into the darkness. He turned, fleeing toward the elm trees.

Les Hastings and Sandra Chang reached the fallen informant at the same time. Garvey was alive, struggling to breathe.

"Go," Chang barked. "I got this."

Les took off on foot after T-Bone.

T-Bone skirted the little bonfire, turned and headed in the direction of the playground. Les barked his location into his mic, blood pounding in his ears. He pulled his weapon.

"Police!" he shouted, "Stop!"

T-Bone risked a look behind, seeing that Lesley was at least a hundred yards behind him.

Then, suddenly, he was face-down on the asphalt, his arm wrenched expertly behind his back, his gun clattering to the pavement.

Someone was on top of him. He could feel sharp knees and elbows, the overpowering stench of the individual in his nostrils. It was Crescent, his fireman's coat rustling as he unholstered a weapon, pressing it to the back of T-Bone's head.

"Please," he heard a clear, penetrating voice coming out of Crescent, "Please, give me just _one damn reason_ to end you. Seriously, one more kick in the ribs. One more punch in the damn face. Thomas Guthrie," T-Bone felt the cinch of metal cuffs, "I'm placing you under arrest!"

Les approached the figures, gun drawn, eyes trying to penetrate the gloom.

The figure on top of T-Bone looked up. He opened his coat slowly, revealing a gold shield. "All good," he said carefully. "We're good. I'm on the job."

Nolan Medavoy drove the sedan up the pathway, interior lights flashing.

He got out of the car. "Stand down, Hastings, good work...."

He took in the scene. "Okay. We're good. Tariq, I got this..."

The man in the fireman's coat rose, yanking T-Bone to his feet. He gave his prisoner a shake.

"Detective Tariq Nasir," Medavoy introduced, "Meet Les Hastings. Your new partner."

Les holstered his piece, shaking his head in amazement. "I didn't clock you," he said.

Handing off T-Bone Guthrie to Medavoy and Vince Yip, Tariq Nasir held out a grubby hand.

"Nasir," he nodded. "Intelligence. I've heard good things about you."

"Hastings," Les shook his new partner's hand.

"Pud," Tariq teased him, a grin splitting his dirty face. Sorry. I need a fucking shower."

__________

"Garvey," Chris wept, holding the grey head on his lap, "Garvey, can you hear me?"

Garvey's mouth opened and closed, trying to draw breath. He glanced around, seeing the florid face of Nolan Medavoy floating above him. Medavoy knelt, pulling Garvey's shirt front open to reveal two rounds splashed against the Kevlar vest.

"You....said...." Garvey gasped, "that it might...sting....a bit....you'r a damn liar..."

"There's a bus on the way," Medavoy told him. "We got it all. We're good. We got him."

"We done now?" Garvey wheezed. "We all square?"

"We're square."

__________

The ambo showed up, winding it's way into the park. A small crowd had gathered. The lead paramedic, a small, grouchy Israeli named Ackerman, took charge of the situation.

"He's probably got a fractured rib or two," he announced flatly, "he'll live."

"Thanks, Levi," Medavoy nodded.

__________

Standing on the dark basketball court, Lesley pulled Chris into his arms. Both of them were shaking, their tremors blending into one. Les hugged his lover tighter.

"You're okay," he said into the soft curls. "You're okay, I'm okay."

Chris squeezed his eyes shut, sandwiched between the rigid Kevlar vest and the protective arms which enfolded him. Les smelled of musk, and adrenaline. "Papi," he whispered.

__________

There had been a dove nesting in the satellite dish, when she'd lived above Garvey's garage with her young son, Chris.

In the garden at Glenwood, there was a mourning dove as well. Out of all the bird calls she'd identified on the grounds, she liked the mourning dove the best. It was a peaceful sound; reminding her of those few years on Weston Road, when she'd watched her shy, prodigal child bond with his first protector.

She heard a heavy footfall crunch on the gravel path, in the garden at Glenwood. A man's tread; a large person by the sound of it.

"Hello?" she asked brightly.

"Hi, Marisol," she heard the deep drawl.

She paused, turning toward the sound.

"My," she heard, "aren't you as lovely as I remember. Lovelier."

She raised a slender eyebrow.

"Garvey Rush," she admonished. "You sure took your damn time..."

__________

**APRIL 2015**

_"Happy birthday to you_

_Happy birthday to you_

_Happy birthday dear Chris...._

_Happy birthday to you!"_

Armin brought a cherry cake to the table, and Jean a heaping plate of jam biscuits. Sasha clapped her hands gleefully.

"Make a wish," Armin chuckled, placing the cake in front of Chris.

"No," Les muttered. "Wait..."

Chris glanced up. Perspiration stood on Lesley's forehead. He'd gone a little greyish.

"What?" he looked around, concerned. His mother reached out, placing a hand onto his arm.

"Mom, what?"

Armin was staring fixedly at Les, a small frown creasing his face. As Armin was a paramedic, this only panicked Chris.

"What? Lesley, are you sick?"

"Nobody sick," Les said firmly. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small box. He opened it, and in the flickering light of the birthday candles, slid it across the table toward Chris.

"Christian," he said, looking into the startled face of his love, "Chris, will you have me? Be my husband, make a family with me?"

Chris's mouth fell open.

"Uncle Chris," Sasha whispered, "You say 'yes', now."

"Yes, now." Chris breathed. "Yes...of course....yes!"

Les Hastings breathed an enormous sight of relief, opening his arms to embrace Chris.

__________

The jam biscuits were buttery, flaky and melted on the tongue.

__________

**EPILOGUE**

Detective Les Hastings swung his Buick into the parking spot in front of the Greek bakery on Crann Avenue.

Beside him, his partner Tariq Nasir noodled with his phone.

"All good?" Les asked him.

"Yeah. As good as it's gonna be with a teething baby," Tariq grinned wryly.

The detectives got out of the car and entered the bakery. A middle-aged woman with ash-blonde hair was behind the counter.

"Hi Rachel," Les greeted her. "How's things?"

"Hiya!" her voice was rough, and warm. "Coffee?"

"Yeah," Les nodded. "A couple macaroons too, if you don't mind."

Rachel turned, pushed open the kitchen door and yelled, "Nolan! People here!"

Sporting bakers' whites and wiping his hands on his apron, retired Detective Nolan Medavoy emerged from the kitchen.

"Oh, hell no!" he held up his hands. "No! Nope! I just want some peace and quiet."

"C'mon, Nolan," Tariq leaned on the counter. "We're in the weeds with this case, here."

"What is it?"

"D'Andrée Bishop case. Serial strangulations."

Medavoy sighed. He'd bought the bakery off the Greeks five years ago. He'd gotten a good price; there weren't many offers on a property which was the site of two homicides.

"Sit," Rachel chided. "I'll bring coffees."

"We won't keep you long," Hastings promised. "just want to run the details by you."

__________

Sunday was open mike night at Brighton. _Cherry Kirsch_ , Brighton's house band, hosted. Various jazz artists were impromptu guests of the band.

After the first set, guitarist Chris Guthrie stepped up to the mike.

"Hey all," he said softly. "Good weekend, everyone?"

A few claps.

He held up his left hand, sporting a thick silver band. "I got myself engaged this weekend," he shared.

More applause.

Chris looked over at Jean. "'Kay," he said. "What next?'

Jean turned to Rocky Joel Lee. "Rock, what's next?"

Rocky Joel peered down at his sheet, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses.

"Well, wot we fookin' doing?" Connie Springer was getting impatient.

"Oh! Yeah...." Chris spoke again. "Up next...okay, up next....let me introduce an incredible young trumpet soloist. This young man is nearly seventeen. He's been accepted into the performance jazz program at Humber College...here, with a couple Miles Davis numbers for you, is my nephew, Mr. Olli Hastings..."

A chubby young man with a warm, infectious grin took the stage. He gave Chris a kiss on the cheek, settling himself onto a stool, with his trumpet.

He looked out at the audience, beaming.

"How y'all doin'?" he greeted them.

_____________

THE END


End file.
